A Telling Touch
by Miyako Toudaiji
Summary: Post-Reichenbach. After Sherlock's death, John manages to get himself re-enlisted and is sent back to war. But when two series of gruesome murders link home and outland together, John is suddenly faced with more battles than he could have imagined. A Reunion, multi-chapter, case fic. (Tags: Soldier!John, BAMF!John, Doctor!John, Soulmates, Friends to Lovers, Christmas, Mummy Holmes)
1. Chapter 1

**A Telling Touch**

Dedicated to and beta'ed by the wonderful JezebelGoldstone. I love you, darling.

**Rating**: **M** (war, violence, crime; sexual content later on)

**Genre**: Hurt/Comfort, Romance, Drama

**Pairing:** John/Sherlock

**Disclaimer**: Nothing you recognise in this is my own. The story is, though.

**Spoiler warnings: **Contains spoilers for the complete first and second series, especially for TRF.

**Author's note:** This story is almost completed on my computer already, so updates will come in on a regular basis at least twice a week- on Mondays and Fridays. Plan is, though, to finish this before New Year's Eve, so updates might increase as we progress.

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**Part 1: The War Within**

**.**

"_Helpless now I stand_

_Though_

_Never will I break_

_Nor stop to fight."_

.

**Chapter 1**

**.**

**Date: April 26****th****, 2013. 1400 hours.**

**Position: Talil base camp (34° 50****′**** 25.35****″**** N, 36° 39****′**** 29.35****″**** E)****, Homs province, Syria. **

.

"Mind if I join you?"

John's heart skipped a beat as a deep voice reached his ears from just a few inches next to where he was sitting at the big cantina tent table in the middle of nowhere and "brooding", as Bill Murray liked to call it, over an old photograph. Only a second later, his brain caught up and he silently berated himself for still getting his hopes up after all this time, while the complete wrong person in shape of one Major Dean McAllistair sank down next to him on the hard bench, reaching around him in a half hug and boldly clasping his (thankfully) right shoulder. McAllistair wasn't exactly known for his subtlety- or his self-control, for that matter- so every bloody soldier in camp knew by now that one hardly could escape the often rigorous socialising attempts of the new Major. Or his curiosity. John had long since given up his initial instinct to keep his reasons for being back in war private and stopped to only stare at the tattered picture of him and Sherlock in the relative darkness of his tent in between sorties. Almost six months after having arrived in the endless olive fields of Syria, every single one of his fellow comrades had found out some way or another that Captain John H. Watson was mourning. And that he had nothing to lose anymore.

It made him reckless, yes. But he also saved many more soldier, rebel and civilian lives than he would have, if he'd still given a damn about what might or might not happen to him. Other than his team mates, who all had their families and lives back in England to come home to, John's home was buried six feet deep in a London cemetery.

"I got no choice whatsoever, now, do I, Major?" John half joked at the black-haired intruder sitting far too close for his liking, and forced a grin on his face. He really would have preferred to spend his break alone.

McAllistair just bellowed his roaring laugh and, while scooting even closer in order to look over John's shoulder at the picture, casually slid his hand down John's back to rest at his right hip.

"You're staring at that pic again? Where was it taken anyway? Always wondered. Looks like a crime scene of some sorts…" He furrowed his brows and attempted to get a better look at the two men leaning against a barely lit brick wall, trying to get their breaths back after having caught a fugitive drug smuggler. The taller of the duet steadying himself with a tentative hand on the other's shoulder, both smiling like mad and utterly oblivious to the officers bustling around them.

John's nerves stood on end now, though he didn't quite see the reason for that. McAllistair wasn't the brightest fellow, but he usually wasn't cause to worry either.

John frowned. "It was. Another bad guy off the streets. Good night for justice and leg work," he resisted clicking the "k" of that last word. He was getting better at thinking about his best friend and accepting his life without him, but that didn't mean the pain abated.

John had learned to blend in as best as possible, joking and playing poker with his team and the other soldiers in camp- trying to hide the fact that his smile never quite reached his eyes these days. He concentrated on patrols and in surgery, often for more than 48 hours straight without a single hour of rest. He ate and slept to keep functioning. He'd even learned to play the guitar from some of the local rebels in order to get his mind off wandering in endless circles. In addition, this proved quite useful when the team was sitting together after another day in gunpowder and blood, telling stories at the bonfires as a replacement for the telly to just let their brains go offline for a few. Those times had, miraculously, even become some sort of favourite for John after he had finally been able to start talking about his adventures with the world's only consulting detective again. Without having to fight off the suffocating lump in his throat each time he only so much as thought about it, that is.

Most of his comrades either knew the truth about Sherlock and Moriarty because of John's blog, like Murray did, or were constantly on and off tours all over the Middle East and therefore unable to catch up on the gossip the British press still occasionally blabbed in the first place. As it was, Sherlock's cases provided more material for interesting campfire discussions than John could have guessed. And it somehow managed to soothe the cramped clod in his chest at least a bit, knowing that there was still a place in the world- even if it only was a goddamned war hole like Syria happened to be these days- where the young genius still got the appreciation he deserved.

"One of the cases again, then?" McAllistair's rumbling question broke through John's reverie. "Didn't the two of you have some kind of, I dunno, private place or something?" McAllistair looked up at him, which brought his face so close to John's that he could smell the Arabian beer on his hot breath. "Maybe some photos of domestic bliss would help you better than this."

His voice dropped even further, turning into some kind of a scratchy purr. John's stomach churned in discomfort and reminded him of the little fact that he had missed lunch today because of the bleeding casualty they had gotten in this morning. Poor bloke had managed to drive his Panther through a minefield and had caught one or two.

"So tell me, mate, what were the two of you up to when the cameras went off? Share a bit."

John sighed. Although summer hadn't nearly come yet, the area was already turning into a fucking furnace- about 30°C- and he had made a habit of rolling up his sleeves and undoing his uniform shirt around midday, whenever he wasn't operating or patrolling. The sun was burning down mercilessly on the small camp. But right at this moment, he regretted his bare arms and his almost naked torso, because it made him all the more aware of McAllistair's close presence. John's patience was slowly but steadily wearing thin.

Wordlessly, John put the photo back in the breast pocket of his shirt.

He never talked about his old home. To no one, not even Murray. Not even to his sister back in Essex. Not even to his oh-so-persistent therapist until he'd quit the sessions, realising that it wouldn't help. It wouldn't _heal_. Part of him had known the moment he'd shot the cabbie. The rest of him had caught up with it as he'd stood before the grave, the world crashing down in brutal clearness.

There was Sherlock and then there was nothing.

John had accepted this truth about his life at some point in order to at least be able to keep going. He was a soldier. He was a doctor. He was a brother with a sister in AA rehab. He was needed. He had to keep going.

So John never talked about what the self-proclaimed sociopath had meant to him. About what he never had said to the one person who really truly deserved to know. About how John hadn't realised that their time was running out, that there wouldn't be a second chance. Not for them. Never for them.

"Look…" he turned on the bench towards the Major, hooking up his left leg and folding it in front of him to rest on the bench- freeing him from the half embrace without turning away from his superior disrespectfully, "is there actually something I can help you with, McAllistair?"

McAllistair's hand, rid of its former place at John's hip, now landed on his left knee with a tight grip. "I don't know. Can you?"

John just stared at the younger man, unable to believe what was quite clearly going on and desperately wanting to think that McAllistair was just taking the piss. But the hand now started creeping up his thigh, the wooden table successfully obscuring the movement from the eyes of his comrades on the other side of the makeshift cantina.

"You know, Watson, I observed you for quite some time. And you should know by now that some places in the army are far more accepting of this kind of… situation… than most people might think."

"I have no idea what you're talking about."

Because he could very much handle getting hit on and diplomatically turning down the offer, mind you. This was war, after all, and people had a tendency to crave some peaceful intimacy and tried to act on it whenever they so much as sensed an opportunity, but-

"Well, I think you do. Think about the benefits," another squeeze, "I only want to help, you see? Maybe you should be more careful where you choose to daydream. Or, better yet, get relief when it's offered. Simple, really," he even had the guts to nonchalantly shrug at that. "Some had to learn that the hard way, you know."

- But letting himself be threatened and pushed was so _not_ gonna happen, mate.

"Well, thanks for your concern. But I'm neither gay nor bi nor interested. Or someone to be scared into bed." John briskly pushed the hand clamped on his leg aside, standing. "And somehow I have a hunch that there might actually be some higher ups interested in this very conversation. _Sir._ "

With that he turned and started to walk away, but-

"Come on, don't be such a child. Stop being so _picky_."

- McAllistair's baritone coming up right behind him made him stop dead in his tracks-

"Just pretend! It shouldn't be that big a deal, I even look a bit like that freak of -"

There was a quite satisfying crack of the nasal bone as John's fist connected hard with his superior officer's face. McAllistair struggled backwards a few steps, holding his bleeding nose and fixing John with a cold stare, obviously not used to lower ranks speaking their mind in front of him.

"You call him that one more time," John breathed dangerously, "- just _once_- and I will shove that nose up your brain. Fair warning."

"How _dare_ you?" McAllistair growled and launched himself at John in blind rage, initiating a fistfight in the dry sand of the steppe that finally managed to get John's mind off of Sherlock for a short while. He had inkling that this wasn't the kind of help McAllistair had had in mind, but this one he _was_ glad to take, thank you very much.

He was not even spitting blood yet, though, when Murray and Fontaig, a young Lance Corporal only recently deployed at Talil base camp, pulled them apart.

John didn't resist Murray's grip as he was forced a few steps back, breathing heavily. He tried to concentrate on getting his frustration back under the rather delicate layer of control he was wearing like a second skin these days. Always feeling like he was on the verge of exploding.

Murray and John had the advantage of being equal in rank by now and therefore didn't need to officially justify their years-old silent agreement to not doubt each other's decisions anymore. They had pulled one another out of fights more times than John could count. And in the rather dangerous state of mind he was currently in, John was quite grateful that Murray happened to be in his camp. He had a hunch, though, about who he had to thank for that coincidence.

Poor Fontaig, on the other hand, had to let the Major go as soon as he'd succeeded in pulling him back a few paces, and McAllistair was flinging himself at John again the moment he'd recovered his balance. Murray reflexively loosened his grip on his arms in response to the new round of attacks so that John could defend himself.

_And here it is again, the ranking minefield_, John thought as he buried his fist into the solar plexus of the Major. Every single nutter in the army was well aware that standing by when a fight was going on could just as easily get you reprimanded as turning against your superior officer- and Fontaig was inexperienced and had a lot to lose.

John was hit quite effectively across his chin, just as a small figure threw herself with wide open arms into the middle of the fight.

"Shut up, you crazy lot!" sweet Mary Morstan's steady voice clearly topped the deeper ones of the men, instinct and long forgotten manners silencing them all together.

When she had their attention she smiled openly at the gathered crowd. "Thanks for your help, gentlemen. I think we can handle it from here."

Without further ado and seemingly oblivious to the gobsmacked stares she got from the bystanders, she took hold of John's arm and carefully led him to a nearby table and her first aid kit. John was sure that Murray would be waiting nearby, though- he could still feel the furious glares of McAllistair prickling his neck.

Upon arriving, she quietly stepped closer and looked up at John with a somewhat rueful smile. John winced. After having worked for him and, well, _on_ him as a nurse since last Christmas, she was now capable of seeing right through him.

"I thought you promised to only fight for your own dignity for a change, Captain." Carefully, she touched his chin and began wiping away the blood that now steadily dripped out of a small cut right below his lower lip.

"Just couldn't resist the prospect of meeting you again." John grinned; promptly earning himself a smack upside the head for playfully winking at her.

"And here I was, believing that you'd actually know the way to your own surgery," she shook her strawberry blond head in mock wonder.

"Hmm… might work next time?" He tried a hopeful smile.

"Yeah, you know- Hope dies last. It's worth a try, I guess." Shrugging, she grinned and dutifully checked the cut again for the possible need of stitches, but seemed satisfied so far.

"Will I live, you think, Nurse Morstan?"

Mary sighed at that, all mockery vanished from her gaze. "Your body is just fine, John. But that's never really the problem, is it?"

Yes, well.

John closed his eyes against the soft caress on his cheek. How many times had he wondered just why in hell it couldn't have been Mary? Why he hadn't met her on an earlier tour. Sweet, funny, kind, beautiful, flawless Mary Morstan. Dating, falling in love, building a family, settling down. Even as it was now, John could still sometimes feel that telling little spark, a fluttering of ashes thought long gone cold, and he _knew_ they would have been just _perfect_ together.

If it were different.

But John had experienced the one-in-a million kind of roaring fire, burning over nerves throughout his whole body, shaking him to the core. Warm, steady, home.

And he knew that anything less would never be enough for him again.

"HELP!"

Abruptly brought back to the present, John heard all hell breaking loose around him. Turning in the direction of the uproar-

"HELP! Help please!"

A young boy in his early teens with two little girls, barely older than four or five, came running to the camp border and waved an obviously hurriedly self-made rebel flag, stumbling while they tried to go even faster over the hot stony underground, "HELP! We no bad! Please! Help!"

Murray and John dashed towards where they were held back by the guards just outside the camp now, assault rifles pointed at them hesitantly. As they came closer, John could make out their bashed up, barely covered bodies- cuts and bruises almost everywhere. He was just in time to reach them as the smallest of the children had managed to stumble past one officer and fell into John's arms. There was no need to search them for semtex- nearly naked and so thin there almost wasn't more to them than bones and skin, they couldn't hide anything larger than a single bullet if their lives depended on it.

"It's alright, let them pass!" he ordered, ignoring the guards standing to attention at his words. Murray scooped up the second girl and, followed by the teenager, they hurried to the surgery.

On their way in, the team and Mary approached them as John tried to organise his thoughts back to business.

"Remmy, get Colonel Rutherford out to us."

"Yes, Sir," the Lance Corporal turned and skidded away to the lead commander's barrack.

"Hadan?"

"Here, Sir."

"We might need a dragoman. Try to get a connection to the boy while we have a look at the children's wounds. Russ, get your team to the weapons, I think we're heading out."

"Sir." There was the prompt response of the young woman before she and the rest of the men hurried to their equipment. Hadan meanwhile fell back to jog next to the Syrian boy instead.

Once a local rebel himself, Lieutenant Amin Hadan was able to speak fluent Syriac, the language of the Arabian Christians, and Arabic, the national language. He also had the impressive ability to analyse his cultural surroundings in such detail he was able to act according to that culture, and therefore draw no attention to himself. He was like a chameleon. Naturally, this still made him some kind of outsider, standing back, his dark eyes observing. But John had liked him since early on his tour.

Not having the amazing talent of learning dozens of different languages in only a few nights as Sherlock had possessed (who Hadan tended to call "Nabil", the unrivalled intelligence), John relied on the young local to communicate with the Syrians during their patrols through Taldou and the nearby villages on a regular basis.

"Ask him about their age and if there are any illnesses running in the family, past and present!" John ordered now.

"Yes, Sir!"

"John, she's still breathing?" Mary jogged next to him, concern for the little unconscious girl in his arms radiating from her short form.

"Barely. We need oxy masks as soon as we're in." John had no idea how long the children had been running through the steppe in the midday sun, or what had happened to them in the first place. He just hoped they would be able to stabilise them fast enough, before their weakened bodies would inevitably give up the struggle.

XXX


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter 2**

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**Date:** **April 26****th****, 2013. 1630 hours.**

**Position: Talil village (34° 51****′**** 35.20****″**** N, 36° 34****′**** 25.00****″**** E)****, Homs province, Syria.**

.

Cursing, John knelt down by the bodies lying haphazardly where they had fallen, the wall behind them blood smeared and riddled with bullets. Machine guns. Definitely more than one. Close range shots, no weapons on the dead men. And no other victims up and down the dusty village crossroads. Execution.

John rose again, his helmet and combat gear barely protecting him against the brutal sun in the steppe, when his headset with their Personal Role Radio clicked and rustled with static.

"… Shit, Captain. There are more of them. *static* … Kids and women, fucking shit!" came Corporal Rob Brian's voice through the intercom. The experienced soldier and his partner Lance Corporal Garrett Jordan had entered the building next to them, while the rest of his unit searched the streets and secured the immediate surrounding area.

Lifting his L115A3 rifle, John motioned Remmy to follow him to the run-down houses.

"Check for survivors and possible hiding spots. Split up, we need to get this done quickly. The bastards might still be nearby. Remmy and I are taking the centre area," John ordered into the mike while moving.

"Yes, Sir."

Having been together with his team for the past few months, he was able to rely on every single one of them, each soldier comfortably established in their respective roles and sub-teams. Over time, they had almost automatically fallen into some form of group intern action pattern with Sergeant Lilly Russ as his second in command. In situations like these she was head of sub-team Beta, accompanied by Lt Hadan and LC William Fontaig. Gamma were Brian and Jordan, the later a promising sharp-shooter with good aim who John trained in between raids and patrols whenever they had time to spare.

John and his radio operator carefully approached the house opposite of them. The entrance way was locked, so John stood right before it, aiming at the still blocked corridor he knew would lie behind and waited for Remmy to kick in the door, ready to fire in the split of a sec at any attacker who might lurk in the darkness.

It crashed and smashed against the wall, John lined up-

Clear.

He stepped in first, pressing his back to the wall near the opening leading to the next room, Remmy right behind him. Concentrating, listening for the smallest noise inside or further down the hallway. Silence.

His heart beat strong in his chest, mind running on instinct and extensive experience alone now as John's grip on his weapon tightened.

With a short intake of breath he pushed himself away from the wall, whirled around and aimed his weapon at the inside of the room.

_Shit. _

Experience- fine. But _nothing_ could have prepared him for this. Not even the battlefields of London.

Shit.

It was a whole family.

A helpless family in the middle of preparing dinner.

They had been _slaughtered; _there really was no other term for it. Remmy, who had come in behind him for securing the left hand side, let out a string of helpless foul words and tumbled backwards-

"- NOT back to the hallway!" John hissed, as he realised what Remmy's reflex to flee the horror was about to do to the young soldier.

Remmy stumbled once, found his balance again and stayed still. "No, Sir. Thank you, Sir."

John nodded. Then he stepped past him and carefully went down the hallway to make sure the area at the end of the narrow corridor was clear, checking for booby traps on his way. It was the only other room in the house: a living room that simultaneously served as the sleeping quarters. Thankfully, there were no other bodies in there.

Back in the kitchen, he closed his eyes and tried to prepare himself for the awful task at hand.

Lowering the rifle, he stepped up to the first pair of corpses. A woman, barely older than a child herself, cradled an infant in her arms, trying to shield it with her body even in death. Her brain was splattered against the wall behind her. Next to them was a boy, his fists gripping his mother's Thob dress and loosened Shambar in panic, mouth open in a silent scream. Shot at point blank.

John knelt down to the baby, feeling for a pulse although its lips were blue, its skin cold. None. Carefully opening the tiny eyelids, he found his assumption confirmed. Suffocated. That took time and effort- the little one probably hadn't been able to stop crying in its fear, triggering the rage of the attackers.

John let out a hard breath through his nose, trying to calm himself. This was a shit fucking death hole.

He turned his head to Remmy, who still stood in the entrance to the room, blankly staring at the opposite wall. John checked him over from the small distance between them for severe signs of shock, but couldn't see any. Get moving again was best, then.

"Lance Corporal, check for a pulse on the ones to your right."

No reaction.

"Remmy!"

He snapped back to attention at that, startled, "Yes, Sir!"

John turned back and slowly made his way over to the next body. An old woman lying sprawled out on the floor amongst strewn about vegetables and pans. Her hands were splayed in defence above her chest, knife wounds all over her palms and torso, no pulse.

Flies were already beginning to buzz through the heated air in the room.

He had fruitlessly checked for pulses on two more bodies- young women again, stabbed- when Remmy declared the old couple leaning against the front wall dead as well. Standing up, the younger man looked pale but focused again. Good.

Back out on the street they began moving through each building at the crossroad, now and then getting a quick status report from sub-teams Beta on the far south end of the village and Gamma, who were checking the north side. Always getting the same results: No survivors.

They were almost done with their share and joining Russ' group again, when suddenly an earthshaking BANG filled the air, throwing them forcefully to the ground.

A grenade exploded three houses next to them. Only seconds later another, even closer. Making the vibrations thunder through John's head.

Rubble and debris rained down on him and his comrades, sandy dust biting their eyes as they pushed to their feet again and hurried for cover.

"Fucking shit," John swore under his breath, ducking behind a narrow pile of rocks. Over the PRR, he contacted the sub-team assumingly farthest away from the centre, "Brian, anything on the radar?"

"… *static* …"

The sounds of machine guns pierced the air, echoing in the small streets. John saw Remmy and Hadan covering behind an old bullock cart trying to assess where the shots were coming from.

"Brian! Status!" John yelled.

"… *static*"

"BRIAN!"

Another barrage of gunfire whistled over their heads. Shit. John ducked down again, carefully twisting behind the rocks to get the street and surrounding buildings into view. They had to get out of here.

Then came the answering sound of the British assault rifles from north, before-

"… *static* We're here, Captain. *static* Fuck, one freakin' bullet got Brian across the leg. He says he's good for now, though."

Thank God. "What's your position?"

Gunfire.

"Inside house 15 metres north the execution wall. Bastards are heading south, coming your way, Captain."

"Can you see how many?"

"*static*… Half a dozen heading down. About four or five still covering opposite us behind a window. *muffled voice in the background* At least one of them on the rooftops across. Two neutralised by now. Over."

Calculating the distance between the third group of his team and themselves, John assumed that some attackers had started nearer the centre of the village, being far too close for them to be the bastards with Brian and Jordan. That made at least another four for the enemy troop.

A single gunshot grazed the top rock on the pile John was covering behind- Sharp shooters. Great.

Well, in for a penny.

John shuffled, twisted slightly back again and peered past the rocks towards the rooftops. The shot had been lined up on a lower range and smaller angle than most- 100m at best. John scanned possible hiding places suitable for lining up an almost exact short distance shot.

The next bullet grazed his head just above the ear, but it also uncovered the shooter, a dark shadow peering over the narrow balustrade of a house further up the road. John lined up, focused and pulled the trigger.

The shadow fell, hitting the ground with force.

John took a deep steadying breath. Pushing old memories rigorously to the back of his head.

His team fired again, an attacker directly opposite them fell where he'd hid behind a broken window. One man next to the ruin of the exploded house followed suit, slumping to the ground.

The flashing light reflections of a sniper's optical sight at the far end of the road which they were currently on made John target its origin. Good job that he had refused the new Sharpshooter when this tour had begun; He'd rather relied on his proven Long Range Rifle which had helped him in Helmand already and of which he knew every single bump and quirk. He adjusted the sight with a few quick twists and, ducking away from a new round of gunshots from across the street, spotted the sniper, lined up, shot-

And hit.

Another shooter covering behind the corner of a house a few meters away shot again. Wood was splintering and Hadan's agonising scream pierced the battleground.

XXX


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter 3**

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**Date:** **April 26****th****, 2013. 1715 hours.**

**Position: Talil village (34° 51****′**** 35.20****″**** N, 36° 34****′**** 25.00****″**** E)****, Homs province, Syria. **

.

"Hadan's down!" came the report from Russ through the intercom. Hadan's screams and moans echoed through the radio, making John's stomach roll, while Fontaig immediately took Hadan's former place and began firing back.

Remmy joined in on the target and answered the shots with a barrage of his own. They hit.

Crouching, John radioed the base camp for medics and evacuation and hasted over to where Russ was busy trying to stop the bleeding in Hadan's right leg just above the knee.

Their cover wouldn't suffice for much longer and John knew they'd have to put Hadan to someplace safer if he wanted to do proper first aid without risking another hit for either of them.

Russ had already put the safety back on Hadan's weapon and upon reaching them John did so with his own as well, pushing the rifle to his back on its sling and out of the way. The gunfire expanded in that moment and robbed them of the chance to do anything further out here, so John grabbed Hadan with his arms under the wounded man's armpits and ran backwards to the open door of a nearby house. His team kept firing to clear their way.

He carefully put Hadan down on the bare floor inside the house, called "SAFE!" and ripped Hadan's trouser leg open in one go, cutting it with his army knife to have better excess to the wound. The bullet was stuck but did its part in minimising the bleeding, pressing down on the injured artery.

_Better to leave it be for now; just stop the bleeding._

Reaching to his supply pocket, John pulled out the medic tape and wound it firmly around the leg to secure the artery. He then took the HemCon bandage and applied it carefully but with constant pressure to the bleeding trauma.

"Come on, Hadan. You gonna be alright, you hear me? Keep breathing. Everything's going to be okay," he tried to calm the Lieutenant down, focusing on the wound while he internally counted down to 120 and then began to secure the bandage in place with normal first aid tape.

Remmy came backwards through the door, covering them with further shots down the road.

There was a rustling through his headset again. And then-

"It's good to hear you're still alive and well, Dr. Watson."

Was this some shit fucking movie, or had he finally lost it?

"_Mycroft?_ How the HELL did you hack into the PRR of my team? British Government and all- this is a safe – _intern –_ network in fucking SYRIA," he roared, busy with getting Hadan's pulse back under control.

The posh voice sounded far too calm for his liking, "I called in a few favours. *static* Frankly, it wasn't as easy as getting you re-enlisted to an active warzone with an injured shoulder."

"My shoulder is just fine, thank you."

"Well, that's good to hear, isn't it."

Hadan moaned in pain and instinctively tried to reach for the tight tourniquet. John firmly pushed his hands away, readying an injection of a small morphine dose.

"So?" Really, what was the damn point in this newest scheme?

"So?"

"You know damn well what I mean, Mycroft. Why _now_? It's been ten months. Ten. Bloody. Months. And if there ever was an even slightly..." John swallowed, "... positive effect on the whole affair, it's you not being able to kidnap me on a regular basis anymore."

He administered the painkiller shot with care.

"And this, my dear John, is one of the two reasons I let you into the family in the first place," the aristocratic smile almost evaporated through the headset.

"What is?"

"From our very first meeting on you were able to stand your ground against my brother and I. *static* … Believe me when I say I've seen leaders of whole nations break down in tears in front of me. And you are probably even more familiar than I am with how my dear brother could be. Due to various… incidents. *static*"

Well. There was no denying that.

"What was the second reason?"

There was a slight pause, then-

"You know that perfectly well."

Yeah, right. As if.

"Mycroft. Why. Are you calling? I'm a bit busy here, you know." Having done what he could for the leg trauma for now, John started to clean and then bandage the next wound where another bullet had grazed Hadan's waist. It was only slightly bleeding and wouldn't even need stitching, though.

"I am aware. That was the point in this whole scenario, wasn't it," came the arrogant answer.

John wanted to punch him. Hard.

"You actually hear yourself talking sometimes? I wouldn't be in this goddamn shit hole, if you'd be able to keep your fucking mouth shut about Sherlock in front of his WORST ENEMY!"

"Language, John."

"Oh, shut up, Mycroft!"

Hadan winced slightly as the antiseptic was applied to the edges of the wound. John tried to be as quick and thorough as possible in order to minimise any further discomfort.

"We're done, remember? You had your part in killing us and then sent me back to war. End of story. And I'll swear while patching up a fellow officer in the middle of a goddamn ambush as much as I want to."

Again a pause. Then:

"I am still responsible for your safety."

Was he nuts?

"You. Sent me back. To war. HOW is that safe?"

"It was essential for your well being. I am only conducting his wish."

Right, everybody had a border that really shouldn't be crossed, yes?

"... Remmy?"

"Yes, Sir?" came the prompt reply, followed by another volley of shotsand then one single thumping sound outside.

"Get him the fuck out of my line and switch to another code this instant."

"Sir."

"John, do not- *static*"

John sighed as the connection broke off and he rechecked the vital signs of his patient. He then realised that Hadan was weakly smiling up at him, coughing slightly.

"... You sure got some strange friends, Rais."

John felt his lips lightly tucking up as he recognised the Arabic word for his rank, knowing that Hadan only wanted to raise the mood.

"Yes, well. More like an acquaintance, really- He runs the nation back home," John gritted his teeth. "And more likely out of boredom than any real devotion, that annoying git. We aren't exactly on the same page that often."

"… He's Nabil's brother?"

"... Yes."

"Baby brother…?" Hadan's breathing got shallow and irregular.

"Sherlock is. Yeah. … Was," John felt his jaw clench and his eyes begin to sting. He forced himself to calm down and focus again. _Pull it together, Watson._

"He said… you're… family."

"... Something like that. Long time past." So, so long since past. "Never not complicated or, God forbid, _normal _with those two."

John saw Hadan's eyelids flitter. He was still losing too much blood. "Now shut it, Hadan, or you're going to damage your strained lungs even further, right? Try to breathe easy, mate. You're going to be fine."

Gunshots crashed through the window above their heads, sending a shower of glass shards onto them. How John had managed to duck down just in time as the bullets pierced through the room and buried themselves in the opposite wall- he seriously had no idea, but he wouldn't complain either-

"Fuck, Russ, what's going on out there?"

"Sorry, Captain. We've got two more on north side. *static* Might be a GIMPY coming this way, too."

Right. Big, mounted machine guns might actually be more than a bit not good. They really needed to get out of this. And fast.

"Alright, let's move it! Remmy, check for the chopper again. We don't have any more time to wait," John ordered his radio operator, then addressed the backup teams, "Fontaig, Brian, Russ- get the bastards occupied for as long as possible, and Jordan- keep an additional eye through the sniper's sight on the way up and out to the clearing past the south road - reports on changing activities in the background ASAP. Remmy-" he turned to the young man communicating with the platoon, "over here! Now- we have to get him up and moving!"

"Yes, Sir!"

In that moment, Hadan's eyes fluttered shut as he fell into unconsciousness, his pulse barely detectable anymore.

"Don't you dare die on me, Amin. You hear me? Think about Badawi and the kids, mate. Just hang on, okay?"

"Captain, chopper's coming in!"

"On intercom."

"Is on, Sir."

"This is Captain Watson, team 97 Delta."

"... *static*...This is Flight 015, what's your position, John?"

"Cornered inside the roofless house south of the crossroads at 34° 51′ 35.15″ N, 36° 34′ 24.37″ E. One casualty, shot in right leg, hit the artery, unconscious since 1.30 minutes. Need two O negative as soon as you fucking spring us," hopefully that would be enough. "And what the hell are you doing out here anyway, Murray?"

"Can't let you have all the fun to yourself, Doc, now can I?"

"Cheers."

Another round of gunfire went off, definitely getting nearer to their current location and definitely sent their way by one fucking L7A2 GPMG.

John and Remmy heaved Hadan's unconscious and therefore damn heavy body onto their shoulders, gripping his arms on either side of their heads tightly. They approached the door-

"Clear!" came the signal-

"Okay, move it! Go, go, go!"

And then they were running for their lives, bending their knees as low as possible, ducking their heads down, running, just running, for the next cover.

Bullets rained down around them, barely missing their heels, hissing left and right past their heads.

They reached the nearest crumbled wall and skidded behind it, throwing themselves to the ground, scrambling, pressing their backs against the barrier.

John laid Hadan down next to them, grabbed his rifle and began shooting back over the narrow wall at the following attackers.

Only 50 metres up the street came a Panther, the GIMPY mounted on top.

Shit, they were running out of time and Hadan would slow them down critically.

John managed to hit another enemy, their gun forced out of the wounded arm, skidding through the dry sand.

Remmy hit one attacker who was covering on the other side of the bullock cart where Hadan had been shot previously. He went to earth with an ugly thud.

John ducked back behind the wall, feeling for Hadan's pulse again. It was getting weaker by the minute. But it was still there and he still had a chance.

He would not leave one of his own behind while they were still breathing.

"*static*... Beta coming down, Captain. West side's safe!"

"Position?"

"35 metres to your left behind the building's corner," sounded Russ' voice over the PRR.

"Two more neutralised north! *static*Jordan and Brian pulling back, Sir. 85 metres up the main road, coming up behind the Panther. "

"How many left?" John barked into the headset.

Bullets pierced the top of their temporary cover. Remmy twisted to be able to look around the corner and fired back.

"The GIMPY, four flanking it, one sniper above. Over," answered Jordan.

"Can you line up the shot?" John asked his trainee.

"Negative. Covered."

John scanned the rooftops, searching, searching, _come on you bastard, where are you?_

There was a brief light reflection six houses down the road, exactly above Russ and Fontaig's cover. John lined up, breathed out and pulled the trigger.

"Sniper's down. 015, where are you?" John signalled for Remmy to ready himself for the next run, securing and slinging back his own weapon again.

"...*static*… Chopper's ready for takeoff. 100 metres ahead."

"Okay, Jordan and Brian- put everything you got against the GIMPY, take'em down no matter what! Fontaig and Russ, back them up and go for the four flanks! Remmy and I'll get moving the moment you open fire," John nodded to Remmy and they heaved Hadan back onto their shoulders, crouching down with him and preparing to run.

"Ready? GO!" John shouted.

The firing seemed to explode and John and Remmy sprinted across the street and down towards the last row of houses before the clearing, Hadan on their backs. John's shoulder was straining painfully under the extra weight and the defensive posture, but he forced the discomfort to the back of his mind, concentrating only on the chopper coming in sight. _Just keep running._

When they finally heard the "GIMPY's down!" through the intercom, they had almost reached the chopper, hovering only one metre above ground, dust and loose bits of grass whirling through the air around them.

John and Remmy lifted Hadan into the chopper's open side as the medic officers inside grabbed onto him and pulled him up, immediately starting to administer the blood transfusion.

"Safe!" John called to the rest of his team, still outside, "Package on board, pull back ASAP!"

There came no answer, only the sound of more shots in the distance.

Murray reached a hand out to him and pulled him into the chopper.

Still no answer. The shooting ceased.

The sudden silence was hushing over the field.

With a worried gaze Murray looked down to Hadan, then over to the pilot who was straining to keep the chopper low- then his eyes locked with John's.

Slowly, Murray shook his head, starting to lift his hand to signal the start.

John gripped his arm, holding his gaze.

"One minute!" he cried over the wind.

Murray opened his mouth to reply, when-

"...*static*..."

They held their breaths, waiting.

"... *static* Incoming, Incoming!"

And then four figures became visible between the beige coloured walls of the deserted village, one of them slightly limping, all of them running.

_Thank God in heaven_, John sighed inwardly as the rest of his team jumped into the chopper, the pilot pulled the machine up and finally brought them out again.

XXX


	4. Chapter 4

**Chapter 4**

**.**

**Date: April 26****th****, 2013. 2300 hours.**

**Position: Talil base camp (34° 50****′**** 25.35****″**** N, 36° 39****′**** 29.35****″**** E)****, Homs province, Syria. **

.

The next time John was actually capable of forming a coherent thought that didn't revolve around the words "scalpel", "swap", "aspirate", "suture", or "good job, mates, we got him back, stable and over the worst!" it was already late evening.

Exhausted to the bone, John sat on one of the big tables in the camp's centre again, his feet firmly planted on the bench below him, his elbows resting on his knees. Three hours in emergency surgery, fighting for the life of one of his fellow soldiers, a friend, had left little to no energy for thinking about his own emotions or even processing in full what had happened today.

Mycroft ringing him, if one could call it that, had effectively managed to drag the memories, the sorrow, the loss back up to the surface. And John's heart clenched with brutal vigour as all the once carefully buried feelings forced themselves into his consciousness again, choking him breathless.

Closing his eyes against the ravishing pain John let his thumb softly wander over the photograph in his hands, trying to keep the contradicting feelings of desperation and hopelessness at bay.

"We're soldiers. ... Time is not supposed to heal us. I guess."

John snapped his eyes open at the sudden comment and saw the dark shape of Murray's body leaning casually against one of the pillars of the cantina, watching the tents opposite. A few comrades had gathered there to start another round of poker, it seemed.

John chuckled sadly.

"God, no. I never wanted this to heal." Involuntarily, his gaze dropped back down to his thumb next to Sherlock's face. "... Never will."

"You can't stop fighting, though, John."

"I don't."

"Then what the fuck is it you think you're doing?" Murray turned abruptly and pushed himself away from the pillar, facing John. "You're getting more and more reckless out there. Hadan was a goddamn lost cause in that ruin today!" he pressed past clenched teeth. "You risked EVERYTHING. Put Remmy in the line too, just to get you shot at!"

John laughed bitterly at that. "What do you suggest I should have done, then? It's my fucking JOB to get him out of that hellhole alive-"

Murray was over to him in a blink, fiercely yanking at his collar, so that John was pulled to standing on the ground - "This is not your personal shit fucking FIRE EXIT!" - getting his face so close to his own John could see the venom in his eyes as he yelled.

John took deep steadying breaths and held his gaze, controlling the impulse to fight back. Ordering his brain to remember that this was Murray, not an enemy.

Breathe in.

Breathe out.

Once.

Twice.

And just like that, just as quickly as it had started, Murray seemed to sober up a bit. Enough so that his eyes turned sad as he let go of John and took a tentative step backwards.

They had quite the audience gathered around them by now as well.

"He's dead, John," Murray stated, his tone understanding but final. "... … … He's dead."

John forced himself to keep his cool, feeling the long gone tremor in his left hand beginning to creep up once more. He closed his eyes, clenching and unclenching his fists at his side. _Just. Breathe._

"Getting yourself killed won't bring him back," Murray's voice sounded sorry and quiet.

"Living won't either," John countered, opening his eyes again. "So. While I'm at it, I can damn well get some bloody work done out there anyway."

"I won't just stand here and watch you turning kamikaze on every other role, mate," he shook his head. "Or see you waste away in between patrols," he added.

Good old Bill Murray. John knew he just felt the need to help, but there wasn't anything he could do, now, could he?

It wouldn't change. It would never change. It wouldn't get different or even better. John knew that. He was constantly struggling to keep it all together. But he hated the fact that he apparently wasn't able to hide the internal battle enough so it could fade into background noise for the unconcerned bystanders. Murray shouldn't feel blue just because John was being pathetic.

"Look, I'm thankful that you care, okay?" John tried to sound reasonable and controlled. Confident. "You're a good friend and we've been through hell and back together on more tours than I can remember by now. ... But I don't want the easy way out. If I did, I wouldn't be able to have this conversation with you anymore. "

God, those first few months after… well, just _after_. There had been so many different ways he had access to, thanks to his professions. Pills, drugs, weapons, the rooftop of St. Bart's.

It would have been easy.

When he'd caught himself with his Browning against his temple one morning and felt himself finally going positively insane from all the grief and the boredom, the war had won out.

He'd always been a fighter, in the end. So he fought.

"You have to let me keep doing this, Bill. Because if I stop now, there'd be nothing left of me, right? Just back me up out there and I'll be fine."

As fine as he could get these days, anyway.

Silence fell over the cantina, while the wind was picking up, whirling sand and dust around their heads.

Someone nearby shuffled their feet in discomfort. Still unsure if those two men in the centre of attention would explode at any given sec.

John gripped Murray's shoulder in a firm squeeze, tried a reassuring smile and then turned to leave.

After all of today's shit he really needed to grab some sleep.

Murray's voice called across the field as John had almost reached his tent.

"You're turning away from life with every goddamn step you take out of camp. I don't know how to help, if you keep going."

Smiling sadly, John looked back.

"I'm already gone, mate."

XXX

**Author's note:** I apologise for the short chapter. But I assure you that this has its reason within the story and I promise that tomorrow's update will be longer! Thanks for bearing with me and, of course, for reading!

.


	5. Chapter 5

**Author's note: **Only one more chapter to go and then we've already reached the end of part 1 of ATT! (This story will count 4 parts in total, btw- so there's still a lot to come!) If you enjoyed the story so far (or if you'd like to give advice or critics) it would help and flatter me immensely if you'd leave a short review inside the little box at the end of this page. :D Just a few words would do. ;) 

**.**

**Chapter 5**

**.**

**Date: April 27****th****, 2013. 0100 hours.**

**Position: Talil base camp (34° 50****′**** 25.35****″**** N, 36° 39****′**** 29.35****″**** E)****, Homs province, Syria.**

.

Night-time had fallen quickly and although the day had been rather eventful, John lay wide awake, trying to win the hopeless war burning inside his head. Wanting nothing more than to escape the thoughts that screamed bitterly at his tired brain.

He stared up at the roof of his tent and watched the soft shadows from the movements outside dancing across the flysheet, creating unsteady little patterns.

Sighing, he rolled over on his cot and fished the battered photo of him and Sherlock out of the breast pocket of his shirt where it lay in a heap on the sandy floor. The corners of the picture were long since kinked and wrinkled, smoothed out again, over and over, while sun and heat, sweat and dust had done their respective parts to weaken the paper. In the relative darkness of his small private refugee John could barely make out the contours of his friend, though he knew exactly what more light would reveal, having memorised each and every single line shown in the picture by now.

It was his only true, non-newspaper photo of the detective. He had never thought it might be important to take more while he still had the chance. And Sherlock had hated cameras so much after the deerstalker incident that he took to sabotage every even half hearted attempt of digitally capturing him.

And John, for his part, had somehow illogically believed that Sherlock would be one of those rare constants in human life, which never seemed to be _really_ shaken by anything. Outliving the world just because it was utterly unthinkable that they might be gone once and the world would still have to turn without them regardless.

"_Don't make people into heroes, John."_

John sighed and shifted, fruitlessly attempting to find a more comfortable position on the narrow cot as those fateful last days crept up to howl through his mind again.

"_We both know what's coming, John. Moriarty is obsessed. He's sworn to destroy his only rival."_

God, how often had he berated himself for his blindness, how often had he made that one wish, over and over again, begging the universe to turn back time and allowing him to do everything different. To stay by Sherlock's side. To hunt down Moriarty while he had been still out there, threatening them.

"_Alone is what I have, alone protects me."_

John had failed him on so many levels.

Why had he never told him?

He should have been running up to that rooftop, not letting himself be stopped by Sherlock's plea. And catch him. Catch him. Just catch him in time.

"_I ... I can't come down, so we'll just have to do it like this."_

Sherlock's outstretched hand reaching for him.

Trying to hide the tears in his voice.

Sherlock…

"_On my own."_

He hadn't been able to help at all, had he? Or to at least give him reassurance. To be that protection for him. Anything. Anything at all to help.

"_An apology."_

And now he was gone.

John's eyelids began to drop, but the memory kept chasing its own tail in his head, slowly building up a migraine pulsing behind his temples.

"_Sherlock's… got a plan."_

When had that been? … Baskerville…

John distantly remembered sweet coffee and Sherlock's warm presence next to him. There had always been a plan in Sherlock's mind, hadn't it? Never being able to actually stop thinking with that beautiful brain of his.

"_Time to choose a side, Dr. Watson." _

"_It's a trick. Just a magic trick."_

Sherlock. Just what the hell were you up to? Why didn't you let me help?

"_No one could be that clever." _

Just wanted to stay with you…

Growing old together…

"_Tell him, would you, John."_

"_Take my hand!"_

"_I'll burn you!"_

"Sherlock, run!" He screamed on top of his lungs, sun burning down on him, attempting to make him sway in the dry desert sand, but he pushed forward, running, running, running, towards the pale figure in the worn-down beige kurta, standing lost in the heat, oblivious to the dancing red mark on his loose cotton trousers, up and up, skirting over the shirt and the long green dismaal wrapped around the sunburned neck, almost reaching the shortcut hair- "SHERLOCK!"

A shot rang out and Sherlock's shoulder abruptly snapped backwards, then he tumbled, lost balance for the final time and fell, fell, fell to the dry sand before John could reach him.

Then the pain caught up with his nerves and Sherlock cried out in agony, as John scrambled to pull his friend behind the nearest broken wall for cover.

"Sherlock, stay with me! Do you hear me?! Don't go! Stay exactly where you are! Please, could you do that for me? Please, Sherlock..."

There was too much blood, God, he had to stop the blood somehow, stop it from flowing so freely to the desert under his feet, just stop it, _stop it!_

"Don't die, Sherlock! That's just what he wants, he wants you dead! Can't you _see _what's going on?! Don't give him that, Sherlock! Don't-"

Oh, God, all that blood! And there was no pulse, but that just couldn't be, Sherlock was still looking up at him, his pale eyes fixed on him, and John swayed, swayed, swayed, his world spinning and breaking apart all over again…

...

Gasping and panting John shot up on his cot, barely managing to muffle his scream with his own fist, biting down hard to ground him.

Moaning at the pain which was now again fiercely pumping through his heart, and completely rid of his strength, he fell back down, desperate to catch his breath. He rubbed his hands over his tired face and tried to stop the tears.

He should be used to this by now- as were probably most of his comrades, having unintentionally witnessed some of the more vocal nightmares of their Captain the thin tent walls couldn't keep private.

It had started the night after The Fall and, although they weren't as regularly anymore- these days, he was occasionally even granted more than a week of restful sleep before the next round would hit- there was simply no denying the fact that he was still haunted by them. Just another truth he had to accept about this new form of semi-existence, John guessed.

Calming down after one of these horror shows proved unbearably difficult, though. Back then, when he had woken up from one of his dreams about the day he had gotten shot in Helmand province, there would have always been soft soothing violin music drifting up to his room. Or, if Sherlock had been too engrossed in his Mind Palace to notice, or, once or twice a week, asleep, he'd just wandered down the stairs to their flat. He had then been able to feel his pulse getting steadier by the minute just by inhaling Sherlock's scent lingering in the chilly air or by silently sitting down in his armchair for a bit, watching the young detective diving through his genius mind.

John took a deep shaky breath and forced his brain to grip onto reality tightly. There was nothing to sooth him now, nothing he could tell himself in order to make him realise that it had just been another bad dream, that he was safe now. His unconsciousness may have come up with different scenarios now and then, but the basics remained the same.

Sherlock was dead.

In his nights as well as his days. No soothing there. Just a bleeding angry hole in his chest. Only-

John held his breath as he heard silent footsteps in front of his tent. Instinctively, he grabbed for his old L9A1 under his pillow, hiding it under the blanket and releasing the safety catch. He sat up in one fluent movement, feet firmly on the ground, and waited.

The next moment the flysheets covering the entry were softly pushed apart. "Captain Watson, Sir?"

John felt himself marginally relax. "Yes?"

The young soldier swallowed uncomfortably, apparently uneasy about the task of waking up a superior in the middle of the night. "Um, Colonel Rutherford wants to speak to you, Sir."

"Where is he?"

"Ah, in his office, Sir."

"I'm on my way. Thank you, Private."

"Sir," the younger man stood back at attention, saluted and left.

John sighed and secured the gun again. What was coming at him now? He had no idea what the Colonel wanted to discuss at this time of night. Everything seemed quiet in camp, nothing out of the ordinary going on, and the Private hadn't panicked or hurried him. John's only guess was that it might have something to do with the attack of the village this past day, but he couldn't come up with a reasonable explanation for the unusual time for a meeting.

He got up and put his shirt, beret and boots back on and then made his way through the dimly lit camp over to the barracks holding the surgery, the washing facilities and the commanding base.

Upon arriving, he put the last strayed parts of his composure back in place and knocked.

"Enter!" came the muffled answer from behind the wooden door.

John did as he was told and saluted. "Sir."

"Ah, Watson. Come in, come in." Colonel Rutherford was a grumpy man in his late 50s, hair greying and his bold face furrowed by wrinkles. John had encountered him in many strategic meetings over time and knew the Colonel could hold his ground- He had been well trained in his youth and was still utterly assertive.

"At ease, Captain," he smiled at John. "That was a damn good move in Talil last evening."

So the attack it was. Odd. "Um… thank you, Sir."

"Do we know anything new about the murdered people in that village yet?" Rutherford busied himself with lighting up a cigar, fumbling with the lighter to get a proper flame.

"No, Sir. But I hear the MI6 in Homs is in contact with the local rebel group about this by now."

"Hm," he mumbled, then looked up with the cigar between his teeth and offered one to John.

"No, thank you, Sir," John smiled apologetically.

"Ah, still this healthy lifestyle, Doctor? My wife asks me to quit since we were in high school, really. I tried cold turkey once, but it was no use. So. What do you think the MI6 will do in our patch?"

John forced to unclench his fists at his hips upon the unexpected flash of memories. "I think they'll need to examine the bodies first. Although, taking today's events into account, it might get a bit bumpy to recover them. The attackers have yet to abandon the village and heavy weaponry might destroy evidence."

"Evidence?"

"My team and I were able to do a quick examination of the cause of death on the bodies. Seems like some of them were stabbed, mostly the… the children and the women," those pictures would probably stay with him for a very long time to come. "The men might have tried to defend their families, but apparently had no chance to react fast enough in order to realise what was going on- they were gathered in a crowd and shot at point blank even before the attackers went into most of the houses."

Rutherford's gaze sharpened. "You think this was a strategic massacre? They were executed?"

No doubting there. This had been planned out in horrible detail beforehand. "Yes, Sir. This would also explain how Hashim and the two little girls were able to escape to the camp, probably having played outside when the attackers strode into the village and forced their fathers against the walls," forcing their children to see, to witness. Forcing them to realise that they were lost. Completely alone and helpless from one minute to the next. Dear lord, this was so not how it was supposed to be.

"Bloody hell, this is going to be quite the loose cannon, if you're correct."

John couldn't help but agree with the Colonel. Naturally, the local rebels would accuse the Syrian Assad regime and military. Those, on the other side, could easily claim that the MI6 or the CIA had performed a false flag attack, deliberately staged it as warfare of Al-Assad afterwards- just the way it might or might not had happened in May 2012 with the Hula massacre. On top of that there was the possibility of a triple bluff, namely the rebels trying to hide behind the European and American Armies. And, oh, so many other politically motivated reasons- a potential conflict with Russia was also looming in the background, for example.

"_Could be dangerous,"_ a deep baritone voice whispered in his memory. John swallowed against the pain.

"Right, well," an unhappy puff gushed out of Rutherford's mouth, "Considering your experience in the field I originally planned to detach you to assist the headquarters in their investigation. That's not going to happen now, though- you've been ordered back to native England, Captain."

Wait. _What?_ "Excuse me, Sir?"

"Apparently, you've got some connections in higher ranks than mine. You were ordered back to London via breaking news on the land line just about an hour ago. Your flight goes at zero five hundred hours from Homs bastion. Take the next chopper out, Watson."

Damn the British Government.

XXX


	6. Chapter 6

**Chapter 6**

**.**

**Date: April 27****th****, 2013. 0500 hours.**

**Position: Homs bastion (34° 44****′**** 0****″****N, 36° 43****′**** 0****″****E****)****, Homs province, Syria.**

.

The chopper which John took to Homs bastion actually brought him directly to the heavily guarded airstrip outside the city and, upon arriving seemingly just in time, simply hovered above the ground for John to jump out. He turned back, pulled his army backpack down to him and then walked over to the small jet waiting across the field.

Although he still was in his uniform, he had left the combat gear and the L115A3 back at Talil base camp, perfectly sure that otherwise he'd have to hand them over to the authorities in London anyway. His Browning accompanied him as usual, so he felt safe enough and this way he could at least spare some extra weight on the flight.

As John lifted his gaze to the jet waiting for him he stopped dead in his tracks for a second, before he shook his head in silence and continued to stride towards it- Of course Mycroft would feel the need to show off, that posh git, and had sent a real life Hawker 800 to fly him back to London. The Royal Army airline. Just great.

Well, maybe they had a nice whiskey to spare- he had a feeling that he might need it.

Next to the gangway, a young woman in very formal clothing and hairstyle greeted him and, with a friendly but professional smile, led him to the cabin.

"Captain Watson, please take your seat, we will be taking off in two minutes. At the back of the cabin you will find a private bathroom and sleeping arrangements at your disposal, if you would like to rest."

"Ah, thank you." He let himself sink into the nearest of the very soft seats. "I slept until your boss had me pushed out of bed only a few hours ago, so I think I'll be fine."

"Well, in that case, maybe you would like to have a look at these." She handed him a thick envelope in which he found case files from NSY as well as the Secret Service. "I am instructed to brief you on the current agenda should you have any questions. Please note that your official status has been changed to 'honourably discharged' once more. Your updated recommendation and the new Operational Service Medal will arrive via post within approximately 75 hours at your last registered address." Brilliant. Another meaningless colour for the dress uniform John couldn't bear to wear. "If I can do anything further for you, please feel free to just let me know."

"Actually, you don't happen to have something to drink, do you?" He smiled up at her.

Two and a half hours later, John had drunk one glass of the finest 16 year old Single Malt, three cups of perfectly brewed Earl Grey, and, after a blissful hot shower, was now sorting through the files, deep in thought.

What he recognised while reading police reports, witness testimonies, interrogation scripts, observation protocols, autopsy results, and descriptions of victims so detailed they started documenting personal information almost from scratch, was that this case was brutally, terribly gross. Where the massacre in Talil yesterday was definitely not how it was meant to be, this fit in just the same box for sure.

And it was, by no means, not thoroughly researched. There were even various newspaper articles on the victims as well as on a few seemingly linked laboratories and other scientific facilities, reporting stolen genetic material and medical equipment over months.

Basically, it came down to an ongoing case about, by now, seven abducted women, which had turned into seven gruesome murders. The parallels between each victim were just enough to get noticed as such but not enough to really work with. All the women were in or near their 20s- the youngest being barely 18 while the oldest had just reached her 32nd birthday. They had all been adopted as small children or had lost their close relatives as grownups, making them easy targets for kidnapping. They were abducted in broad daylight, but were killed after varying times of being held hostage. They were all shot in the head, but at different times as well as locations all over London- some at home, some in alleys, and one even in the middle of a supermarket.

Up until then, John had honestly wondered why the hell Mycroft had wanted to order him back to Queen and Country for this case. Yes, it was a terrible serial murder with Jack-the-Ripper potential, but he was not with the police.

Never had been, really.

Definitely not anymore.

But then his gaze fell upon another file inside the main folder. And with that he knew exactly why he was called in.

Two reasons:

The first was that all victims had been to active warzones for one or another purpose in the last ten years, and then had been shot in the head from an enormous distance, angle and with a very specific long range rifle, an old SA80.

John knew that this weapon had been dropped out of active service for years because of its far too often recurring difficulties. Concerning such helpful things as the freezing or melting of different parts in harsh climates, hurtful jamming, and the magazine randomly dropping out without warning. This rifle could be described as 'grumpy' at best; its worst description was 'friendly death-trap'. There was only one elite sharp shooter who had tamed the SA80 and refused to ever use another weapon again.

Colonel Sebastian Moran.

John was able to see the pattern in absolute clarity because he had seen Moran line up impossible shots with his weapon on countless occasions when he had been just a little Private, freshly out of uni. Moran had noticed John's talent for shooting, his steady hands as a surgeon and his sharp eye and had started to train him as a sniper. They had bumped into each other a few times over the years on their respective tours and had resumed working together. John actually had kind of liked him; he had a piercing humour and a way of honest direct approach concerning problems and difficult topics.

On the day they had parted ways for good, John had been shot in his shoulder with one SA80 while trying to save the lives of two of his comrades in a set up ambush. Much like the one in Talil yesterday, really.

After this incident, John had been sent invalided back home and Moran had gotten dishonourably discharged and then vanished.

John absentmindedly touched his hand to the left shoulder and started to lightly massage it while he kept staring at the file on the table before him.

Three hours later they touched ground in London.

Asking Mycroft's assistant for strong black coffee, he sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose. He would probably head straight to the morgue.

'_Look at us both.'_

The second reason for getting John involved was the latest victim of Moran's serial murders.

Irene Adler.

**XXX End of Part 1 XXX To be continued XXX**

**Author's notes:** With this chapter we'll close the box of ATT's part 1. :) Three more parts to follow- chapter 1 of part 2 will be up on Friday. Thank you all so much for reading, leaving kudos, bookmarking, and commenting, mates! It's like having Mrs Hudson's freshly baked scones for tea every day. Seriously.


	7. Part 2- Chapter 1

**.**

**Summary Part 2:** John is back in London and gets confronted with a new case and an old life. While he's struggling to re-adjust to being a civilian once more he's about to discover some major news which might force his sleeping mind to finally take a deep breath after far too long...

.

.

**Part 2: The War Winding Up**

**(Or: In which they meet again)**

.

"_Carrying you through the deserts and back_

_Shielding you from the street's dust_

_The city's blood._

_Fighting. Waiting._

_Fighting. Hoping._

_Never to stop."_

_- N. Gerdes_

.

.

**Chapter 1**

.

**Date: April 27****th****, 2013. 1030 hours.**

**Position: Military airport **_**RAF Northolt**_**, Hillingdon (51° 33′ 11″ N, 0° 25′ 6″ W****)****, Greater London, England.**

.

When John exited the aircraft there was already a sleek, black limousine waiting for him, the headlights dimmed in the misty London morning. Sighing, he squared his shoulders, straightened his back and made his way down the gangway and over the asphalt field. Ignoring at least half a dozen hangars next to the runways and the historic officer's and junior rank's buildings on the grounds of the station, he reached the young officer waiting for him halfway. The man saluted and then briefly checked his backpack for weapons and smuggled goods. John stood by, knowing his Browning was safely tucked away under the back of his uniform shirt and the unlikelihood of a pat down on a military airfield after having landed in a British Army jet usually used by members of the Royal Family for business trips. Confirming his assumption, the soldier nodded and stepped back the moment he finished with the baggage to let John take it with him on the short distance to the _very_ unobtrusive vehicle of the British Government. Without halting, John went to the car boot, threw his stuff inside and then slid into the posh leather seats, pulling the door shut behind him.

Mycroft's smile upon greeting balanced on the verge of creepy. "John. So glad you could make it."

John pushed past the false attempt at polite small talk at once, not in the mood for Mycroft's staged scheming. "Is it true then? Irene's dead for good now?"

Mycroft's fake smile slipped off his arrogant face smoothly and he looked dead serious. "Yes. I had it re-checked twice, there's no doubting it this time."

John nodded as he felt the car vibrating softly under him, coming back to life and starting to roll through the main gate and onto the B-road. "What about her body? Was there anything different about it this time?" Granted, Irene was _quite_ different from the low profile women who had been abducted so far.

"She was only found very recently. Detective Inspector Lestrade is to fill you in on any new developments." Mycroft turned to eye him critically. "I assume you have a theory on the identity of the shooter?"

"Colonel Sebastian Moran," John answered coldly, keeping half an eye on the road outside and the route they were taking. "He trained me- then shot me. We were in active service together for quite a bit over the years until Helmand."

"Hm," Mycroft tapped something into his phone, "I thought it might be him. I believe you're absolutely sure about your allegation?"

"He _shot_ me," John gritted out between clenched teeth, focussing his full attention on Mycroft for a moment. "I can smell his MO at 30 kilometres against the wind. This is him."

Mycroft nodded and hit 'send'. "You must be wondering what this might be about."

"No, no. Not at all. I actually like being pushed out of camp in the middle of the night and have my life planning torn to pieces all over again by you. Bloody good fun, that."

"John. I assure you I had no choice." It was almost surreal, but the look in Mycroft's eyes changed to something akin to regret for a second.

"So why's that?" John asked while the streets outside gradually got busier with people and traffic, the houses shifting from small family homes to the multi-storey buildings of London's centre.

"Our investigation has left no doubt that Moran was a very close acquaintance of James Moriarty." John felt his eyes widen and just a blink later narrow in retained fury at that name. Mycroft took in his posture and cleared his throat. "Unfortunately, we cannot ignore the clear pattern behind their latest actions."

"Pattern?"

"You read the file, you know that all the victims were abducted in spitting distance to 221B, starting exactly one month after you left for Syria." Mycroft began listing the facts John had gathered from the extra file earlier. "The victims were executed by the same man who attempted to kill you once already. Dishonourably discharged after his confirmed betrayal of our country by selling crucial and top secret information to local terrorists over years. Simply because of his fervour for man-hunting and setting up massacres for his personal enjoyment."

John gripped the door handle tight.

"And this man is now the right hand of my brother's dead nemesis. My brother- the genius detective whose only known friend was you." John strained himself to not close his eyes against the helpless rage as Mycroft carried on, "His greatest weakness. And a suitable target."

John forced the thin layer of self-control to stay in place and fought to not reach for his breast pocket.

_Steady breaths. Get a grip. Just. Breathe._

Mycroft seemed to sense his turmoil when he continued with caution. "When we found Irene Adler's body this morning, in addition to the news about the latest ambush in Homs province mere hours prior, it became too high a risk to leave you unprotected in a foreign warzone."

"_Me_, Mycroft?" John snapped, feeling his calm cracking dangerously. "Seriously? Bloody hell, I don't give a damn what happens to _me_!" From the corner of his left eye he saw the driver prepare to stop the car, hand already drifting to his mobile for the panic call. John noted his weak spots while he kept growling at Mycroft, "I just wanted to keep doing my fucking job out there-" Mycroft cringed at that, "-and don't you dare complain about my swearing now or I'll frickin' punch you in the head!"

Mycroft halted mid-motion, closed his mouth, and then- much to John's chagrin- spoke anyway, after directing his concerned driver to mind his own business with a short flick of the wrist. "While I am sworn to keep your life as pleasant as possible under given circumstances, there are certain aspects which I am neither willing nor permitted to discuss. Your surviving is _sine qua non_."

John furrowed his brows. "Permitted by who?"

"Furthermore," Mycroft ignored him, "you are the only living person who got close enough to Moran to get detailed information about his methods and behaviour. You happen to be vital to this case, Doctor. I'm afraid this will take significantly longer to close and therefore most likely will cost more innocent lives should you decide to deny your assistance."

"Blimey. You actually like backing me up against a wall, don't you?" John asked, torn between anger and mad anticipation about getting back into some sort of action after all.

Mycroft pulled his features into a grin. "Just because I manipulate the highest in the land on a daily basis does not mean I'm incapable of enjoying my line of work under more private circumstances."

Yup, definitely creepy. "Mycroft, just how high up the scale _was_ your upbringing?"

Mycroft lifted his trimmed eyebrows in surprise. "I'll take you to Christmas dinner sometime, shall I? I think it quite has its charm; you'll probably like it."

John nodded. Not that he was very keen on spending the Holiday with Mycroft and Mummy Holmes, mind you.

With a sinking feeling he realised how little he knew about Sherlock's childhood home. "Where is it anyway?"

He only knew what his best friend had shared of his own volition: conscious memory from the age of two, a slew of nannies of which he remembered three (meaning: not completely deleted on purpose), a mostly absent father in science labs and a white smock who died young. And Sherlock himself spending every available minute engrossed in experiments to give his demanding brain something to do since it had turned rampant shortly after his fourth birthday. Some six years later he had been sent to boarding school and never turned back. Hearing even these bits had been like taking a glimpse into a completely different world. And it had always left John wondering just how much Sherlock had to endure as a kid.

"Somerset," Mycroft said after a short while, "just outside of Pensford."

John instantly pictured lively old towns and endless fields, interspersed with small hills and woods. "Sounds lovely."

Memories from the one summer spent in the area in his teens came to his mind, trying hopelessly to warm his churning insides.

"It is, when you like the quiet." Mycroft offered in answer.

Well, no wonder Sherlock fled to the bustling heart of London even before he had completed his chemistry studies with a degree.

They sat in silence for the rest of the ride through London's busy streets. John fought his personal, internal battle against the steady burning pain in his chest as he tried to _not_ notice when they passed Baker Street on Marylebone Road, until the limousine finally stopped in front of St Bart's some 40 minutes after leaving Northolt.

"I've arranged a safehouse just outside London for your use for the duration of the investigation. It's fully equipped with the latest-"

"Thanks, but no thanks."

"Then where will you go?"

"I'll figure something out."

"Well, then." He sighed, but apparently didn't feel the need to argue. "Send me a paper with everything you know about Moran to the Club as soon as you can, John. I shall coordinate our further investigation with the police and keep you informed."

"Right." With that he was obviously dismissed, so John left the car wordlessly, picked up his baggage from the boot and then headed for the mortuary without so much as glancing back, glad about getting into motion once more.

When he finally pushed open and through the swinging doors to the lab with his backpack loosely swung over his shoulder again, he was greeted by a much nicer view than his best friend's arrogant brother had provided- in the shape of Molly Hooper and Greg Lestrade looking up from yet more files when he entered.

Seeing them standing there in the unnaturally white light of the morgue John felt himself smile involuntarily- truly smile- for the first time in months. Because this- this was familiar in an utterly different way. Here in the labs of his old training hospital, with Lestrade and Molly welcoming him back with a slightly cautious but nevertheless relieved grin, he needn't be constantly on guard. This was as close to a home as he could ever hope to get these days.

John had barely time to marvel at this discovery as good, caring Molly ran towards him and flung herself into his arms, suddenly weeping loudly into the collar of his uniform. Her delicate hands grabbed at the shirt at his lower back while she kept on crying into the crook of his shoulder, wetting the stripe of bare skin visible between the uniform and the beginning of his throat.

Stunned, he slowly lifted his arms, carefully holding her as she began stuttering watery apologies, helplessly trying to catch her breath in between sobs. He looked over to where Lestrade was still standing by the tables in the middle of the bright room, looking just as perplexed as John felt.

"Hush, it's alright," John tried to calm her, rubbing soothing circles on her back. "Molly, what's happened?"

"I'm sorry. I'm sorry, John, I didn't mean to... I'm just so glad that you're not dead." She gasped and swallowed, pushing herself slightly away from him but fisting her hands in the fabric over his breast instead. "I mean... not that I ever wanted you to die- I didn't. Oh, no! I still don't! Oh, I just. I mean- I'm glad that you survived after all- not- not that I thought you wouldn't! I'm..." Sighing and seemingly frustrated with herself, she gave up and started to wipe at her tear-streaked face. "I'm happy that you're back."

John reached for the package of tissues nearby and held it out to her and she finally let go of him to grab a handful, smiling resignedly up at his worried gaze.

"Thank you." She cleaned her nose discretely. "I'm so sorry, John."

"You don't have to be, Molly. It's fine. I'm actually quite glad myself to not have gotten shot again." He felt the corners of his lips tuck up as he recognised the truth behind these words.

"Yeah, me too," Lestrade said happily from the background. He stepped forward, shaking John's hand in a firm grip. "Welcome back, mate. I knew they wouldn't get you."

"Thanks, Greg. Wish my reason for being in London again was a tad happier, though."

After Mycroft's briefing he couldn't help but feel a certain amount of dread creeping up his spine at the thought of what might still lay ahead of them on this case.

"Yeah, you bet. Poor women. Did the Government get you up to date already?" Lestrade asked, slipping into police mode again.

"On my way in, yes. Though he wouldn't tell me anything specific about the results of the examination of Irene's body yet."

"Yeah, we only found her late last night. Molly just finished the autopsy a couple of minutes ago. Found something interesting- wanna take a look?"

John nodded shortly, steeling himself for what was to come. "Show me."

XXX

**Author's note:** Happy St. Nicholas' Day, mates! And to all of you guys living in Northern Europe: I so hope that you're safe and unharmed after yesterday's and today's hurricane Xaver!


	8. Chapter 8

.

**Part 2 - Chapter 2**

.

**Date: April 27****th****, 2013. 1125 hours.**

**Position: ****St Bartholomew's Hospital**** (51° 31′ 2.86″ N, 0° 6′ 0.46″ W****)****, West Smithfield, London, England.**

.

Irene's corpse was terribly bruised and scattered with scratches in varying stages of healing- evidence of a harsh imprisonment as well as a long and hectic flight. While Molly read out her report, John compared her results with the actual wounds, cringing as the picture of Irene's last months in life became more and more visible for him.

There were fading cuff marks on her wrists and ankles, indicating that she had been restrained at some point but possibly not for the whole of her confinement. Her eyes were bloodshot and her teeth showed signs of repetitive contact with stomach acid- possible recurring vomiting. Although there were no signs of malnourishment or dehydration, there were signs of acute fatigue. The fatal wound was a clear shot from behind through her heart. The angle and the bullet pointed at Moran again, leaving no doubt.

"So she was most likely held in some kind of cell or cage?" John asked, rising again.

Lestrade nodded slightly. "Yeah, that's what we assume for now. Molly said she might have been relatively well cared for?"

John frowned. "I'd agree. Although, the obvious signs of recurring sickness don't quite seem to match with that. Could have been torture. Eating disorder due to the stress, possibly."

"Um... I might be able to explain that one," Molly said. "When I examined her uterus I found that she had a very recent abortion. Early stage of pregnancy... maybe only eight weeks in."

John felt his eyes widen. "Irene was pregnant? Wait- didn't all those news articles report stolen genetic material and science equipment? What about the other victims? Maybe there were similar signs?"

Lestrade scanned through is files. "Hm. Yeah, at least four of them had given birth recently. No signs of the babies. _How_ did you know?"

John tried not to feel insulted by Lestrade's somewhat incredulous tone of voice. "Irene was homosexual _and _the most independent woman I've ever met. She never had sexual intercourse with her clients as a rule. Since she was pregnant it seems highly likely that it was due to some kind of scheme. Combined with her abduction ...well."

'_Wasn't a difficult leap.'_ John almost managed to not grip the rim of the table at the baritone in his memories.

Lestrade sucked in a surprised breath. "And how did you know _that_?"

"She told me once," John answered shortly.

'_You jealous?'_

'_I'm not actually gay.'_

'_Well, I am. Look at us both.'_

God, how he'd wanted her to shut up.

In order to get his mind off the past, John slowly resumed circling the body on the cold slap, taking in all the little details Molly's report summed up in sterile black ink. When he came to Irene's feet he noted more bruising on her soles. Dark smudges and scratches which Molly had cleaned from the dried blood in the process of the autopsy, revealing some carefully blue coloured letters: 'JHWH.'

The soldier in John who had fought in Afghanistan against religious terrorists on numerous occasions almost instantly saw the abbreviation of the word 'Jahweh' or 'Yahveh' - the Biblical word for God.

So maybe it was indeed some kind of sick breeding project those poor women had to take part in? _But why?_

Molly must have noticed his pause because she stepped up next to him and whispered, "Yeah, we kind of wondered about that, too. You weren't that close, were you? I mean, with her being a dominatrix and all..."

John looked up at her, startled. "What are you talking about?"

Perplexed, she pointed at the letters on Irene's sole. "Your initials. Your middle name is Hamish, isn't it? But we still don't quite know what to make of that 'H' at the end."

'_Holmes'_ shot it through John's mind. But then again, he had been kind of fixated ever since the cabbie case.

"Why should she write the initials of my name, of all people, on her foot in the middle of escaping a madman who'd kidnapped her?" he asked sceptically. "Assuming she wrote it herself."

"That's what we wondered," Lestrade interjected, taking a step forward and handing him a small evidence bag with a sheet of plastic in it. "Might have something to do with this code, though. Molly found it inside her stomach. Miss Adler must have swallowed it."

John took the bag and read the obviously hurried scribbling on the tiny piece of paper: 'Not here- we're not stupid.'

John closed his eyes as he resigned himself to hear their voices talking clearly in his mind once more:

'_I knew you'd keep my secret.'_

'_You couldn't.'_

'_But you did, didn't you? ... Where's my camera phone?'_

'_It's not here- we're not stupid.'_

'_Then what have you done with it? If they've guessed you've got it, they'd be watching you!'_

'_If they'd be watching me, they'd know that I took it to a safety deposit box in a bank on the Strand a couple of months ago.' _

'_I need it.'_

"Whatever she wanted to tell us- I think we need to search the private boxes in the- what, ten? -banks on the Strand," John sighed.

"For what?" Lestrade asked.

"Her camera phone? I don't know. At least that's where she kept everything important. Makes sense to me."

The Detective Inspector looked at him for a long minute and then nodded grimly, lifting his own phone to his ear. "Donovan? We have an anonymous tip concerning the Adler case. Get a warrant for the list of every safety deposit box inside the banks on the Strand opened in the last two months. I don't suppose we'll find anything under the names 'Irene Adler' or 'The Woman,' so keep your eyes open for anything suspicious. Get every man on to it and once you've narrowed it down we'll get the necessary warrants for having a closer look. Keep me posted." He confirmed something spoken on the other end of the line, then hung up and looked over to where John was busy getting his grip back on reality. "I think that's everything we can do here so far. You need a lift?"

John urged himself to focus. "Ah, no. No, thank you. I think I'll walk. Sitting still is not that high on my list of favourites at the moment, you know."

Lestrade nodded in understanding. "Right, figured. Well, I'll just accompany you on your way outside, then. Need to head back to the Yard anyway."

"Sure." John nodded a friendly farewell at the silent pathologist while he shouldered his backpack again. "Take care, Molly."

Molly apparently tried a brave smile but failed miserably as she watched them leave through the lab doors.

"So, any plans what to do when this is over?" Lestrade asked once they were walking down the grey hallways.

John hesitated. "To be honest- I have no idea." He sighed. "I originally had every intention of just staying on active duty, but it seems Moran wasn't quite into that… so. I guess the medical stuff is always looming in the background, but for now I think I'll just have to concentrate on getting settled again. You know. Finding something to keep me occupied for a bit longer."

"You're up for a pint this Friday evening, then?"

God knew John would probably need any distraction he could get. "Yes. Yes, most definitely." Keeping himself in working order while being back in peace already had proved to be far more difficult than he'd feared. "Our pub still around?" John couldn't help but sound hopeful. He'd always liked the crowded atmosphere, the dark wooden tables and the deep red front windows from where you could look over the busy street perfectly. It held quite a few memories.

"Yeah, they're doing fine, thank God," Lestrade laughed. "Seven o'clock?"

"I'll meet you there."

"That's settled then," Lestrade said and John noticed the relieved grin on the Detective Inspector's lips. They reached the front door and stepped outside. "Take care, mate. I'll call when we get anywhere with that camera phone."

"Thanks, Greg." John smiled as they parted ways.

John did his best to act perfectly calm and normal as he kept walking. Around the next corner he stopped and leaned his back against the wall of the nearest building, taking a deep breath.

He needed to figure out where he should actually go now.

He dreaded the veteran hotels- just the thought of the first weeks after returning from Helmand made the old pain in his leg flare up again. He hadn't enough cash with him to stay at a regular hotel, though. And it would take some time to find a new flat.

He knew there was only one reasonable place to stay at the moment, even though it possibly wasn't the healthiest choice. But after all, he figured he really owed Mrs Hudson a visit. Better to get it over with, then.

Reassuring himself by planning to begin his search for a new place as soon as the chance came up, John began walking towards Baker Street for the first time in six months.

XXX


	9. Chapter 9

.

**Part 2 - Chapter 3**

.

**Date: April 27****th****, 2013. 1305 hours.**

**Position: ****221 Baker Street**** (51° 31′ 24″ N, 0° 9′ 30″ W****)****, City of Westminster, London, England.**

.

Mrs Hudson gave a remarkable impression of Molly's earlier breakdown when she opened the door of 221 unsuspectingly. She clung to John's slightly taller frame, muttering relieved 'Heaven, thank you!'s for nearly a minute, before ushering him inside, closing the door behind him swiftly. As if she was afraid he would try to escape at any moment given the opening.

Guiltily, John let himself be pulled to Mrs Hudson's cosy kitchen, where she instantly began to fill the kettle and set out her porcelain tea set. He could use the extra time until he had to face the flat again. In case she hadn't rented anew, that was.

"I did get all your kind post, dear." She smiled apologetically as she poured the hot liquid into the shining cups. "I just didn't know how to respond so it would reach you in that awful desert you were in."

John hadn't it in him to correct her about the way emails worked, so he just smiled and nodded. "That's perfectly alright, Mrs H. I just wanted you to know how I was doing so you could stop worrying about me."

"I'll always worry about you, love. Especially when you're in that dreadful place. I'm so happy you're back safe and sound now."

As soon as she sat down she sprang up again, fetching freshly baked biscuits from the oven and placing them on a plate between them. John couldn't help but marvel at the contrast between the almost unearthly safety of Mrs Hudson's fort and the in-between-operations-grab-a-bite-while-you-can cantina under a tent sheet in Talil base camp. And whatever 'home' meant now-

"Yes, about being back..." He grimaced, trying to work out how to word his request.

"- Oh, don't you worry, John! Everything is just the way you left it up there. Well, I did go up to clean a bit every once in a while, but I couldn't think about letting anyone else live in that place. Please feel free to come home any time you'd like." Good thing John was used to the casual way people tended to say that four-letter meaningful word by now, so it wasn't very difficult to set his jaw and smile through Mrs Hudson's happy rambling. "I'd be happy, you know. I could use the extra hands with the repairs of this drafty old thing." She smiled warmly at him.

"I won't mind helping you out, of course," he answered honestly. "But I don't think I'll stay for long. I don't... I think I need my own place... for a while, at least. Get settled into a somewhat steady lifestyle again, you know."

She patted his hand on the table affectionately. "I understand, dear. You take your time. This old pile and I will be here when you're ready."

"Thank you, Mrs Hudson." John hesitated, but then he figured he should just come out with it and be fair to their old landlady. "To tell the truth, I don't know when I'll be able to find a new job, though. Or if I'll even make enough to afford the rent on my own anymore. Let alone pay you back your losses while I was abroad." His fists clenched as he thought about the sum of money he would somehow have to earn to pay back the kind woman.

Mrs Hudson looked surprised at that. "Pardon?" Then realisation seemed to hit her, "Oh John, dear, the rent's been taken care of for years to come! Didn't you know?"

John almost swallowed his hot tea down the trachea and began coughing wildly when his lungs protested. "'Taken care of'? What do you mean, 'taken care of'?"

"And here I was wondering why you insisted on paying double those last couple of months before... you know. I planned on giving it back to you once you came home, of course. Just couldn't bring myself to ask for your reasons then."

Shit. This had to be Mycroft again then, that meddling git. Just fucking great. John might actually have to storm down the hallways of Diogenes Club rather sooner than he'd anticipated. Although he could really use that money, he wouldn't want to live off Mycroft's massive bank accounts. No, definitely not happening, thank you very much.

But the next second, Mrs Hudson paled and looked extremely uncomfortable while she studied John's expression. "Oh, love. I forgot you wouldn't go to the reading of will."

_No. _

Please, _no_.

She gripped his hand more firmly this time, offering silent solace, while his vision began to blur. He noticed his old tremor slowly coming to the surface once more.

"Sherlock... left you all his stuff except the violin. Every bank account, the trust fund, even all those favours half of London owed him were endorsed on you. And it was explicitly stated that 221B should remain free for you to live in, with the full rent transferred to my account each month in advance. I'm so sorry you didn't know that, love. I should have told you, I guess, but I thought Mycroft would..." She smiled sadly.

John felt gobsmacked.

Utterly, totally clueless. No idea what to do.

He'd known pretty early in their friendship that his flatmate had some money. Well. Some _more_ money, really. Obviously enough for tailored suits and designer shirts, for always preferring cabs over the much cheaper tube while travelling all over London day in and day out, and for refusing to take proper cheques for solving cases on dozens of occasions whenever the mood struck him.

Though he'd seemed to have quite the financial background due to his upper-class childhood to begin with, John was aware that Sherlock had made a small fortune all by himself through his detective work- sometimes earning up to 50.000 pounds for one single case (if it promised to be better than a six on his Mystery Scale).

John had never even spared a thought for what was to happen with all that money after the Fall. It never even occurred.

Supposedly, he'd just assumed it would go to Mycroft or their mother. He didn't really know. He couldn't think straight then anyway. It was just as Mrs Hudson had said: He hadn't even been able to brave the reading of will, vaguely remembering having spent the whole day at the grave.

And now all that money was his.

Maybe he should donate it? Might even be enough for the urgently needed renovation of the children's ward at Bart's. Hopefully Sherlock wouldn't mind if he used it for such a purpose? Maybe he could bind it to the purchase of new technical devises and medical equipment...

...

For one moment, John was tempted to call Mycroft for the credit cards and flee the flat to sleep at a hotel after all.

But when his gaze fell upon Mrs Hudson's hopeful, kind eyes he promised himself to at least make it through one night, and then start searching for a flat in the morning.

He could do that, right?

He would rather stay in Mrs Hudson's guest room than go upstairs, but he wouldn't impose on her like that. It was just his old... home, for goodness sake. Up until last night he'd been blown up and shot at on a regular basis. He could face the absence of happy banter inside the once familiar walls, surely.

The trembling in his hand disagreed.

John stalled for time with another hour of Mrs Hudson's wonderful tea and easy small talk before he braced himself for the inevitable silence and dragged his bag up the 17 steps to the flat.

The door to the living room was unlocked. With no other tenants John figured Mrs Hudson simply saw no need to bolt it properly. After one final deep breath, John pushed the door open and stepped inside.

Six months had done nothing to change the place.

The curtains were open and the midday April sun filtered through the glass of the twin windows, barely touching his old seat by the dusty fireplace, the Union Jack pillow still waiting for him. The armchair opposite empty and cold.

Solitude.

John had to force himself to keep breathing when his eyes fell on the skull on the mantle.

On the yellow paint on the wall interspersed with bullet holes.

The for once clean kitchen table- the mysterious scratch mark still clearly visible at its edge.

Before his departure to Syria, John had stored away the science equipment; Mrs Hudson had put the old files and notes in boxes, and brought them into Sherlock's room.

He hadn't been able to bring himself to clean away the stuff in the chamber itself, though. Sherlock's clothes were still in the wardrobe, the shelves full of curiosities and the collection of classical composers. The poster of the periodic table on the wall behind the door. A rare reminder of the happier times of a lonely childhood. Almost hidden away, but nevertheless there. Sentiment.

Of all the things John had to do after the Fall, closing Sherlock's bedroom door behind himself that day had been one of the worst.

And now that he was back where he'd started- there really was only one question that mattered, wasn't there? Could 221B still hold his sanity intact?

John shuddered.

And just like that he knew he couldn't. He couldn't. He wouldn't last a month. He had been at this point before and it had been boiled down to two choices. Inevitable.

Point a gun at an enemy and fight. Or point a gun at himself and stop fighting.

John stood motionless in the living room, blankly staring at Sherlock's abandoned armchair.

Damn it. _Stop this._

He really needed something to do. Preferably something useful.

Without further ado, John turned on the spot and went up the stairs to his old room where he began to unpack his bag, finding at least some comfort in the military routine and order.

'_I need to __**think**__.'_

As soon as he'd finished, he changed into his red button down shirt and some jeans, replacing the military boots with his well-worn leather shoes. He almost felt naked. After saving their photo from his uniform pocket, he threw his shirt into the laundry.

-Naked, fine. No need to feel exposed on top of that, though.

He saw time slowing down as he stared at the sandy heap of clothing in front of him. The end of the soldier once more. Right there.

When his phone suddenly chimed in his discarded uniform trousers, John startled out of his reverie, immediately scolding himself for apparently losing track. Again.

This just wouldn't do. Any of this shit. Just _carry on_, damnit!

Nodding shortly at his worn-looking reflection in the mirror, he retrieved his phone and opened the text message.

'Hey John, it's Molly. Sorry, earlier was a bit busy, wasn't it? Didn't get the chance to ask if you had somewhere to stay just yet? Just. If you need anything, you can stay at my place until you find something? – Molls x'

John felt a small smile steal itself onto his lips. While Molly was too concerned over everyone and everything for her own good, she was a true friend and he was glad to know her. 'I'm at Baker Street. No need to worry. Thanks for the offer, though. – John'

Staring at the phone in his hand, John felt the trembling from all this inactivity growing worse. He didn't even realise what he was doing until he was already dialling Greg's office number.

The DI picked up on the fourth ring. "Yeah?" He sounded tired and stressed out.

"Greg, it's John. Did you get anywhere with the case yet? Anything I could help with?" Realising that his civilian identity still missed something vital, John quickly held the phone between his chin and shoulder and fished his wallet out of his uniform, putting it to safety inside his back pocket.

"John, sorry. Listen, we're trying, right? And I know you're probably bored out of your mind, but there's only so much we can do to get forward. We're searching for that safety deposit box now- it took some time to get the warrant with that little information we got."

"I see."

"Look, I promise I phone you as soon as we know more, okay?" Greg said over the speaker.

"Yes. Thanks, Greg."

Sighing, John went back down the stairs and through the front door. While he was busy just starring holes into thin air, he could at least buy some groceries to keep himself occupied with cooking tonight instead. Of course this wouldn't solve the problem of finding some sort of long-term occupation ASAP to keep him from going nuts. But one thing at a time.

Back out on the street, he turned towards the park. The late London spring was sunny but refreshingly cool and the additional walk would calm his heightened senses and stressed nerves. At least enough so that he wouldn't shoot the lady at Tesco's out of reflex if she so much as ducked behind the checkout counter to retrieve a new bank wrapper with change.

The park was full of all kinds of people and John blended in easily; half his brain scanning his surroundings on autopilot while the other enjoyed the fresh, definitely dust- and sand-free air and the peacefulness after months of shouting and shooting.

Part of him never managed to get rid of the sensation of being watched from afar, though.

At first it wasn't more than a prickling down his neck, just below his hairline. His nerves recognised the feeling as something familiar and didn't alarm his consciousness. When he became aware of the problem, tension had already settled firmly between his shoulder blades and sent warning bells ringing.

John strode towards a coffee stall, bought a cup and casually walked behind it to the conveniently positioned waste basket. He stood there, sipping his still much too hot coffee, and scanned the area for anything off.

Nothing.

Well. At least nothing unusual for a park in spring. People with dogs. People with kids. Some teenagers on skateboards. Even the occasional homeless person, hunched in layers of clothes and squatting on benches. Definitely no light reflecting from a SA80 sniper vision in the trees, the surrounding buildings, the platforms.

Was he just imagining things now? Getting paranoid? Great. Ella would have a field day with that.

When the prickling abated after a few minutes and the excuse of the coffee had vanished down his throat, John resolutely binned the paper cup and made his way over to the grocery. Trying to relax his taut muscles again on the short walk.

By the time he was ignoring the chip and pin machine in favour of the real live person behind the checkout, he was about to dismiss the issue and put it right into the mental box where 'feeling naked without his uniform' resided already, marked 'habit.'

It wasn't until he'd reached 221 again- each hand occupied with carrying a heavy shopping bag- dropped his key, and half turned to pick it up- that his old life threw him off-balance.

The strength in his knees left him so suddenly that he stumbled backwards against the wooden surface, sliding down until he landed heavily on the stone steps. Sitting there breathless, his gaze was fixed on a swiftly retreating shadow next to the entrance of a small alley some few houses down the road.

And on the yellow spray paint artfully running down the bricks:

'_We believe in Sherlock Holmes.' _

A bit below that and slightly to the right corner:

'_We fight John Watson's war.'_

And just like that John knew exactly what he could do to keep himself sane.

XXX


	10. Chapter 10

.

**Part 2 - Chapter 4**

.

**Date: April 27****th****, 2013. 1610 hours.**

**Position: ****The Espresso Room, ****31-35 Great Ormond Street**** (51° 31′ 19″ N, 0° 7′ 11″ W****)****, Bloomsbury, London, England.**

.

"John!" Sarah smiled up at him and took the seat he offered her at the small table. Her warm hazel eyes seemed to be scanning his physical condition on autopilot as soon as they sat down. "How have you been? I thought you said you wanted to stay abroad longer?"

"That was the plan, yes," John answered, trying to ignore the slight feeling of being one of her patients. But when he saw her eyebrows drawing together in obvious concern he hastened to add, "I'm fine. Don't worry. Mycroft ordered me back on short notice, that's all."

"Ah, that's good to hear, then." She seemed honestly relieved at that, her eyes brightening once more with maybe even a little intrigue now. "That's Sherlock's brother you mentioned? What does he have to do with anything?"

"Yeah- you, me, and my team left behind in Syria wonder about that." John rolled his eyes and tried for a smile- but it might have turned out more like a grimace. Sarah didn't seem to buy it one second.

"What is it, John?" She reached out and took a tentative hold of his hand on the tabletop. "Can I help you with anything?" Her fingers were as warm and soothing as her eyes and he wondered when he had stopped feeling truly content in her company. Probably when she had broken up with him shortly after the Pool Incident, a small voice in his head provided sarcastically.

She had visited him at his friend's place in New Zealand and, during a walk through the soft green hills surrounding them, made him open his eyes concerning his feelings for his mad flatmate. In retrospect, he'd already known then that the Pool had forced his steadily increasing, but nonetheless buried and ignored, feelings for Sherlock to the surface with never seen vigour.

Well, offering to _die_ for a person twice in one evening might be a bit difficult to ignore on the long term after all.

Sarah and he had parted ways amicably after that and she still was a good friend to him now, especially when it came to their shared medical background.

He smiled. "What gave me away?"

"Oh, I don't know, maybe that look on your worried face- more like a mix of utter determination with a hint of 'kicked puppy,' really."

"Oh, so that was it, then?" He faked a serious expression.

"Yes, that might have been it, yeah."

They broke into soft giggles and just like that the mood was a bit lighter.

John took a deep breath. For what he had in mind he could really use the help of an established physician and he had no idea if Sarah would want to take the accompanied risk. He wouldn't blame her if she didn't. "Look," he began tentatively, "I _need_ something useful to do and, well… I can't really stand clean desks, whitewashed walls and sterile floors at the moment."

"So, what are you saying...?" John could see her trying to grab his meaning. "You... want to practise off the radar?" she asked, somewhat unsure. At his hesitation her eyes widened. "Really, John? You _know_ there won't be a single health insurance that'd back you up. And we're not even talking about legal coverage in case something went wrong."

"I know. I know it is a risk but I'd be going bonkers for doing nothing until I figure out how to blackmail Mycroft into sending me back," he replied, only half joking. "And I think they _could_ use my help."

At that, understanding lit up on her face. "You want to treat the homeless. Sherlock's old network, probably? Well, that does sound like a rather good idea, you know?"

John blinked. "You think so?"

"Of course it is! You'd do some really good, John. You have no idea how often they come to the surgery these days and Marlene has to send them on their way without us being able to help," she added regretfully. "Anything particular that brought that on, though?"

John felt the dark shadow which crossed his face way before he saw its reflection in Sarah's eyes. "He did always try to care rather well for them, well... for his standards anyway." He smiled around the lump in his throat. "And they never doubted him and his line of work- which I can't say about the Met and the shit the press call news these days." He cleared his throat and looked up at her. "So maybe I have a chance of getting some information from them that could help clear his name. They always had access to plenty of data that the police simply couldn't get due to their procedure bound methods." He sighed heavily, "Sherlock deserves far more than that, but I can't really do anything else. Although, I can at least try this. And I will."

She nodded, running her thumb over the knuckles of his hand she was still holding. "I just don't see where I fit into this, John. I can't really help with spreading the word for you in the surgeries and hospitals. It won't reach them."

"No, no. I know- that _is_ basically my point. I need your help in a much more... substantial way. I'd have to restock my medical supplies. Probably on a regular basis," he explained carefully, and then added quickly, "Of course I'll pay you. _And_ I'm aware that this is an awful lot to ask... But there are quite a few things I simply can't get as a civilian." He couldn't believe he actually bothered her with this. She had to be almost as crazy as he himself was, if she only so much as considered doing this for him. She could lose her surgery, if things went wrong. Hell, she could go to prison for selling drugs off the records.

Sarah regarded him with steady eyes. Then slowly, the warm smile made it back to her lips. "John, you are a remarkable person, you know that?"

John shook his head, never breaking eye contact. "I'm really not."

"Yes, you are." And then, miraculously, "Of course I'll help you. Just come by and take what you need."

"I... you sure?"

"Yes, most definitely." She nodded determinedly. "Though, should you need to restock after that soon, it would be good if you called in advance so I can make sure that we won't run out of anything."

"I...yes, of course. Thank you, Sarah. Honestly. That's great. I really do appreciate it." He squeezed her hand in return. He was so relieved that he almost didn't catch the way she suddenly bit her lower lip in obvious distress. "Sarah?"

"John … I'm sorry for asking, but… will you be alright? Financially, I mean?"

Ah, that. Well, a few hours earlier he would have shared her worried expression.

"Mrs Hudson actually just told me something that slipped past me after… well." He sucked in a breath. "It seems that Sherlock left me his savings and the trust fund of Holmes Manor, apparently. So… while I never wanted to take anything from that for my own purposes, I think he would be alright with me helping out his old network with it. At least that's what I'm trying to convince myself at the moment." He cringed. "I might have to think about something at A&E, though, if this doesn't work out the way I hope it will."

While he was still talking, her eyes had become the size of baseballs. "'The Holmes Manor'? What sum of money are we talking about here?"

He was pretty sure he managed a real- albeit small- smile at the thought of his mad scientist this time. "I honestly don't know. I never checked. But from the way he didn't care about anything to do with money _at all_ and his aristocratic upbringing… I think it's quite a lot."

"Jesus." She seemed completely baffled for a moment and John couldn't really blame her. After all, the few times she had come to the flat, the body parts and case files flying around (and the lab equipment labelled 'Property of St. Bart's') didn't really have the potential of giving away Sherlock's actual wealth.

And she definitely hadn't seen him verbally degrading the head secretary of the Queen's at Buckingham Palace while only wearing a sheet, as if he'd grown up chasing corgis down those halls.

Now John's answering smile felt definitely real and open. "It will stay that way, though. I'll only take what I need for the network."

"I'm sure he'd be perfectly alright with it. He wanted you to have it, didn't he?"

"Yes, well. Bad habit, maybe?" he added, still feeling somewhat guilty for inheriting such a large sum of money. "He always tried to help me out on top of my army pension without my noticing too much, after all. Sneaking a few notes into my wallet, getting free takeaway from restaurants who owed him a favour. That sort of thing", he almost laughed as he remembered. "He once even bet me 50 quid on a losing battle just to persuade a guy to give him a bit of information he could have done without."

Sarah didn't lose a second in answering, "- And _you_ helped him on his cases and patched him up afterwards. You were a good team."

John's heart clenched. "Yes, we were. … We…" he tried to say something else, anything that might bring this conversation out of the black pit it had suddenly stumbled into. But there was just roaring pain blinding his mind. So he had to settle for a meagre sad tuck at the corner of his lips, "We... yeah."

He could hear Sarah swallow heavily from where he focused on their joined hands. "I'm sorry, John."

The reflexive reply was instant. Long since engraved into his subconscious. "I'm fine."

He could tell she wasn't buying it any more than every other person who knew him. And he was aware he owed her more than this. He just couldn't. Not right now, anyway. He squeezed her hand one last time and hoped she would understand. "I think I better get going and make the birds sing from under the bridges, so to speak. Before it's getting too dark and I'll need my gun to come back alive, that is."

She nodded sadly and pulled her hand back. "Yes, of course. Sure." She looked up at him and her eyes shown with unvoiced emotion. "Take care, John, would you?"

XXX

**Author's note:** Hey, guys! I'm in some sort of writer's block right now, so I thought I'd get my mind off things and go over some parts already written for a bit- That's basically why I'm publishing a short chapter in between my usual updating days. That- and the hopes of maybe getting one or two little kudos for the extra cuppa of motivation. ;)


	11. Chapter 11

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**Part 2 - Chapter 5**

.

**Date: April 27****th****, 2013. 2023 hours.**

**Position: ****221 Baker Street**** (51° 31′ 24″ N, 0° 9′ 30″ W****)****, City of Westminster, London, England.**

.

- _I believe in Sherlock. 221B Baker Street. Medical support and tea for free. Any time. No catch. Spread the word. Watson._ -

John had spent the better part of two hours strolling through London and searching the lively tourist spots as well as the mostly deserted and much darker underground areas, before he was able to find a young girl he thought he recognised. She was huddled into a way too big, mostly torn apart parka at the edge of the river near the Sea Life Aquarium.

Other than in Talil, the end of a mostly sunny day in London's late April meant rather chilly temperatures and a cold wind from the East, driving a few threatening rain clouds in from the North Sea. John stopped at a nearby café and bought a hot cup of tea, tucking the last 30 quid he had on him and the prepared note between the cup and its paper wrapper. He wandered over to the stone bench the girl was sitting on, nodding to her when she looked up, curious. John placed the untouched, steaming cup between them while he took a seat and watched the tourists on their hectic hunt after the next famous sight for a bit.

A few moments later, he stood and left without his tea.

John knew how difficult it could be to give food to homeless people- of course they tried to maintain their dignity and were as proud as any other person. And John didn't want to make them feel as if he thought they needed his oh-so-gracious charity or like he didn't trust them not to spend every pound on the next hit. They would probably just dug in their heels and suffer through refusing the offer.

He didn't stay to see if he had been able to reach the girl.

On his way back to Baker Street he stopped by the surgery as promised and collected what might come in handy for first aid treatment and minor illnesses. Sarah was still there, working the late shift after having spent her break with John earlier. Between her, John, and Marlene they filled a bag with antibiotics, bandages, tape, painkillers, antiseptic, and some vials with immunisation against tetanus, pox, measles, diphtheria and the lot. John promised to pay as soon as he got Sherlock's credit cards from Mycroft.

Later, John was just stirring some stew on the stove of 221B (with Mrs Hudson happily chattering away in the background while setting the table) as his phone rang. He took the call without looking at the ID, pressing the phone between his chin and shoulder. "Hello?"

Mrs Hudson watched him curiously.

"John, it's Greg. We found the camera phone."

"What? Where was it?" Finally a bit of progress. He grabbed the mobile properly, concentrating on what Greg was about to say.

"Just where you said it would be- in a bank deposit box on the Strand. Lloyds TSB. Listen, you're pretty good at solving her riddles. I might have another one for you."

"What do you mean?"

"Well, you know how she always used to lock her phone with some creative code-setting?"

"Yeah." Even he heard the slight wariness in his own voice.

"Seems she's sticking to her rules. But unhelpfully, she changed the last one known to us to something new. Well, no real surprise, I guess."

"Greg," John half-smiled, "You know I'm going mad with boredom here, but I can't see how I could possibly help with a password. I'm no hacker. I type with two fingers, for God's sake."

There was a soft chuckle down the line. "Yeah, well. She left a clue on a small torn paper which we found lying underneath the phone inside the box. Chances are high that it's meant for you."

"How many spaces for the password?"

"Six."

"Okay, shoot." It was worth a try, after all.

"Alright, here comes: 'You've texted him.' Stop. 'A lot.' Stop. Minus or hyphen. Then: 'At him.' End. ... Anything springs to mind?"

'_Tell him you're alive!'_

'_What should I say?'_

'_What do you __**normally **__say?! You've texted him a lot!'_

'_Just the usual stuff...'_

'_There is no 'usual' in this case.'_

'_Hm, you looked sexy on crime watch- let's have dinner. I'm sad tonight- let's have dinner. I'm not hungry- let's have dinner.' _

'_You __**flirted.**__ With Sherlock Holmes.'_

'_**At **__him. He never replies. ... There. 'I'm not dead. Let's have-'_

"- Dinner," John said, without thinking.

"Sorry, what?"

"Dinner. Type that in. It's 'dinner'."

"You sure?"

"Quite. Sorry, I can't really explain why- it's part of a conversation we once had."

After a short wary silence, there came the distinct sound of letters being typed into a mobile. John forced himself to take deep breaths, to stay calm instead of giving in to the impulse to grab his jacket now and run down to the Yard immediately.

"I'm in! How did you do that, for fuck's sake?" came the surprised sounding exclamation.

Then there was some concentrated mumbling while the DI was probably shifting through the newly revealed contents.

"So... okay," came Greg's voice over the speaker again. "Mostly it seems to be about one Sebastian Moran, apparently. Um, from what it says here I guess you know the guy already."

John closed his eyes and felt a short groan escaping his throat. "Yes. Far more than I care for. What does it say?"

There was a short silence over the phone. Then-

"Um," another deep breath, "... Could you come down by the Yard tomorrow- this might take a bit to sort through, but I think you should probably see this."

John paused. Greg didn't sound outright alarmed, but John could clearly detect some barely concealed worry in the voice of the older man. "Sure, I'll be there at noon, would that be alright? What about Mycroft? Should I get a message to him?"

"Nah, it'll be fine. I update the Government more or less voluntarily every other hour or so anyway. Well. See you, then."

John silently shook his head as he hung up, staring blankly into their simmering dinner. He could imagine all too well what 'more or less voluntarily' might mean concerning the posh git. Though what Irene Adler had to do with Moran was a much more important question for now.

John's mind was filled with dread and curiosity. Somehow, Irene had been sure that he would get her messages and somehow, this was about Sherlock. Sherlock, Moriarty, Moran, Irene... But why all that trouble, all those murders, the codes, the riddles... surely not just to get _John_. Right?

Sherlock was... gone. Moriarty was very hopefully so, too. Why would Moran set up all this for someone whom he basically got out of the way years ago?

Moran was clever, he'd give him that. But John knew him and there was just no way he played in the same league as Sherlock or Moriarty. Those brilliant minds had thrived for the 'game', but Moran was just an average man like John himself. Yes, Moran was a bastard who enjoyed killing- but would he take all this risk, only to have a bit of what he called 'fun'?

With so many unanswered questions, it seemed sadly obvious that they were only just scraping the surface at the moment.

"John." Sarah's soft voice in the hills of New Zealand...

"Hm?" More than a lifetime ago now.

A dream, then?

"You know we have to talk about this," continued the Sarah of his memories.

"What do you mean?" His mad best friend had called a few hours prior, asking him to come home to set out the flames that were merrily reducing one of the rugs to ashes.

_Home._ As for now, home was on the other side of the earth. Hearing the detective's voice had done funny things to John's stomach, had sent his heart into a fit that vaguely reminded him of a long fingered hand clenching, gripping at the defenceless muscle in his chest, fast and hard.

Sarah sighed. "You. Me. Sherlock?"

Yeah, he knew.

Not a good boyfriend at all. "Sarah, I'm _really_ sorry. After the Pool Incident I should have called you far earlier, I know that and I'm sorry. I am. I just had to clear my head after all that, I think."

"You realise this is not the real problem, though. Don't you?" She took a seat on the bench, her hand finding its way into his.

There hardly was anything simple or easy he could reply to this. When he looked up, her gaze softened with pity. For him- or for herself?

"John. You're wonderful. You're kind and handsome and clever. And when you love you put your whole soul into it, I'm sure. But I wouldn't know, would I?"

"Sarah-"

"No, I think we both just need to get this out into the open. You can't keep ignoring what's going on, John. Don't do this to me. Don't do this to yourself."

"I'm not sure what you're talking about," he tried to sound more perplex and confused rather than just stubborn. He knew the instant the words left his mouth she wouldn't believe them.

"Yeah, but I think you are. Not since quite recently, maybe, but now I think you know exactly what it is that keeps you running off in the middle of almost every single date we have. Whenever he so much as texts you."

Yes, but she misunderstood. People always did.

"Sherlock and I are friends, Sarah. I care for him. Of course I do."

"Look me in the eye and tell me honestly that you don't 'care' for him more than you do for your comrades or patients or mates. Tell me you feel nothing more for him than for me."

She was wrong.

She was, wasn't she? She had to be.

"I'm not gay." There.

John groaned when he realised his poor verbal stumbling and let his head sink into his hands. God, was that really all he had to say to divert her assumptions, now? It was clear where Sarah was heading with this and he saw their relationship unpick into thin air like a knitted jumper.

And he couldn't bring himself to stop his brain whispering the wrong name inside his head.

"I'm aware you're not," Sarah said now, shaking her head. "You don't have to be. You know all the studies and scales- apply them, John. This isn't about sexuality or a fleeting crush or even affection which tipped over the edge of being best friends. This... this is about much more. And I can't compete with that."

Oh, God, and this was going to hurt, wasn't it. This was going to rip open the carefully sealed cuts meeting his flatmate and living with him, caring for him, had left on John's heart ever since. "Please, don't-"

"You're in love with Sherlock Holmes," John just barely managed not to wince as her words hit home without mercy, "And you're trying to run as fast as possible into the opposite direction."

"..." He couldn't have brought up a word even if his head wouldn't be busy drowning his thoughts in an ocean of white noise.

"John." Softly, carefully. Like soothing a wounded animal. Backed up into a corner.

Bleeding.

Localise the wound, apply pressure, radio for help. Platoon not answering.

"This just can't be true. Okay? You're wrong. You have to be. You're..." He could feel his voice scratching, catching inside his throat.

"You know I'm not."

_Stay focused, Watson. Because if you think this thought through then you're just doomed. _

"You're a completely different person when you're with him, John. Happier. _Content. _I've never seen you smile at me like you do at him."

"Sarah..." _Please. _

_He'll build up that barricade he already has in place for everyone else to stay safe, to stay alone. _

_He'll force me away._

"You'd do anything for him, John. _Anything._ That one case I happened to tumble into made that pretty clear, to be honest. You believed in him and held your ground. Even though being tied up to that chair while facing the barrel of a gun triggered your PTSD." And that was it, wasn't it. There was simply no denying that. "I saw the signs, John. You were fighting off a major panic attack while reliving something gone utterly _wrong_ on one of your tours and you pushed through it- because of Sherlock Holmes."

Yes.

He did.

He closed his eyes in defeat. Sighing sadly. Because, no matter what this meant for him, he'd hurt Sarah. Probably on a long term basis, without even realising it. "... I'm so sorry."

"Don't be. We can't change who we love," still so kind, so understanding. "Even if that's quite a cheesy line, actually." There was a sad laugh, almost inaudible.

Followed by a long silence. Both of them caught up inside their own minds.

When he spoke again, John found his voice to be steady, albeit rather small. "I can't really see where this is going, though."

Sarah took a determined breath. "Well. First of all I think it's heading up to the point at which you and I part on good terms and then you should take some time and figure out what to do with that crazy flatmate of yours."

That coaxed a sad chuckle out of him. Defeated. Might have been a tad hopeless, as well. "You don't know him."

"Yes, but you do. Which was actually the point of my little speech here."

"Which makes me very much aware of the fact that he's simply not interested," he fought an internal battle against the desperation that threatened to take him over. "Apart from the little catch that I still don't know for myself if I'd even want him to be."

"Oh, don't worry. I'm pretty sure you'll get there eventually. You're a man, after all." She tried a playful wink.

John felt his features pull into a grimace. "I can't tell him. He'll throw me out in a blink."

And that seemed to be the point in all this self-denying, really. He knew he wouldn't want to leave. He couldn't. There was simply too much at stake.

"You really think you don't mean anything to him? After everything you've been through together?"

"No, I know he cares. Well. At least I hope I know that... But. The Work and his brain are everything to him. He'll think I'd be distracting him, getting in the way. And maybe I didn't realise it before the Pool, but that episode certainly forced my eyes open in some aspects," he sighed. "I really can't lose him."

"So what? You'll be pining over him from afar?" Incredulous.

"God, no," he shook his head, staring into the hills. Forming a plan. Ever the tactician. Pushing through.

Yeah. Might work.

"He'll notice, don't you think?"

"Yes. So I have to make sure he won't." His voice took on a hard edge.

"You cannot be on guard around him 24/7!"

"I can live with bullet holes in the walls and bloody body parts in the fridge. I sure can build yet another layer around my feelings- I'm English, after all."

"You're not English- You're mad. This can't be healthy."

"Doctor- remember?" he smiled reassuringly at her, having set a plan for tactical retreat. "I'll be fine."

"Yes, well," she sighed. "Then please come consult me whenever you need to talk, okay? Any time."

A sudden, loud noise coming from downstairs made John sit up straight in bed, one hand already grabbing for the gun on the bedside table on instinct.

A glance at the alarm revealed it to be 3.45 in the morning.

The sound came again and again. John's subconscious had already registered the heavy banging thuds as fists, pounding against the front door while trying to gain access, before his brain was completely online. He was up and out of bed, loosely throwing a dressing gown on, hurrying down the stairs in the blink of a few seconds.

_What the he-_

He threw open the door to 221 and almost didn't see the thin figure, huddled under the hood of a bulky pullover, rushing past him the moment the way was free and pressing themselves flat against the wall inside Mrs Hudson's foyer.

John's instincts got the better of him as he instantly closed the door and shut out whoever happened to be on the hunt after his visitor. From one second to the next he felt his posture changing, back straight, all muscles on edge, ready to face whatever problems had stumbled into 221 now. He cleared his throat noisily, waiting.

The figure next to the stairs now pushed back their hood and grinned over at him, dark eyes glinting with adrenaline from the run. "Thanks, Doc. Thought you wasn't here after all," the teenage boy panted. Now John could see that the 'visitor' would more likely be a patient for he cradled a heavily bleeding arm protectively to his side.

"Jesus," John breathed. "Come here, let me see. What happened there?" Tentatively, he exposed the angry wound underneath the stained, dark fabric.

There was a sharp intake of breath when John carefully touched the flesh around the large gash. "Dunno," the boy shrugged. "Right lot of barney and bedlam it were, though. Some just likes to beat us up, y'know? Give way to something nasty inside or what."

Concentrating on the wound, John asked, "So your attacker just suddenly came up to you and started a fight?"

"Nah, I ain't stupid, Doc. He come down me alley and kicks me, I run. He catch me up, though, push me an' all. I falls into some kinda fence or something. That's where this come from." John nodded and began stirring his patient up the stairs to the flat. "Gave him the slip after. Few shortcuts and I shows up here."

"Well, good thing you did. Take a seat, I'll get my bag," John ushered him to a chair in the kitchen where the light would be better for stitching, and went up to his room to get the medical supplies. When he returned, his patient eyed his surroundings curiously.

John put the bag on the kitchen table and began lining up what he needed for treatment and put on a pair of latex gloves. "So what's your name, then?"

"Gregor it is, Doc." Gregor grinned. "Didn't know what to make of the story Skinny-Ginny tells us at the gatherin' 'bout Sherlock's Doc and his open door, but I figured I just gives it a whirl- what with me bashed up and all," he indicated his arm with a nod.

"Good choice. So welcome to the mother ship, Gregor. Any allergies I should know about?" John gave a reassuring smile, while filling a syringe with anaesthetic.

Gregor shook his head, obviously fascinated by John's preparations.

"When was your last tetanus vaccination?"

"Dunno?"

"Well, we'll take no risks, then, shall we?"

Gregor nodded, clenching his fist, concentrating on something above John's shoulder as the latter wiped Gregor's upper arm with antiseptic alcohol and then carefully set the shot. Upon entering the skin John asked: "So, how did you meet Sherlock?"

Momentarily distracted, Gregor opened his mouth to reply, but then winced anyway when the needle pierced his skin. "Near two years ago, it were. He found me next to some soggy stiff inside one of them big-arse pipes by the river." John looked up at that, feeling his eyebrows almost hit his hairline. "I didn't kill'em, just taking a duck and dive from a spot of right nasty weather, I were." John nodded and smiled, using the shot with the anaesthetic to sedate the nerves around the wound. Gregor winced again, but continued to talk. "He knew it weren't me what done it, right away he did. Give me some quid and shows me a way out the pipes behind the coppers. Found me again next night, took me to Skinny-Ginny and the lot."

John began stitching up the wound, after having carefully disinfected it. He nodded at Gregor's words, trying to focus on the here and now.

Gregor studied him for a moment and then said, almost reverently, "We knows he didn't do nothing wrong, Doc." John clenched his teeth. "... We're all out there. The moment he calls, we'll be with him in less than a tick, you'll see. Trust me."

John recognised the hope in the young boy's voice and squeezed his eyes shut, taking a deep breath. When he found his own voice again, it was barely above a whisper. "I'm sorry, but... I don't think he'll be calling, Gregor."

Gregor's answer was almost as soft: "I wouldn't be so sure 'bout that, Doc."

XXX

**Author's note:** I apologise for the late update today- work has been a bit busy. ^^; Next chapter will be up on Friday as usual- we're getting closer to the reunion!


	12. Chapter 12

**Author's note:** I apologise for the late update, guys! I'm so sorry. I've been travelling a lot yesterday and the evening has been a bit busy.

Anyway, here comes chapter 12 for you, and I'm off to get some Christmas cookies into the oven. :) Next update's tomorrow!

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**Part 2 - Chapter 6**

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**Date: April 28****th****, 2013. 0737 hours.**

**Position: ****221 Baker Street**** (51° 31′ 24″ N, 0° 9′ 30″ W****)****, City of Westminster, London, England.**

.

"_I wouldn't be so sure 'bout that, Doc."_

John sat in his armchair- a cuppa long gone cold on the side table- and stared vacantly into space.

He had tried several times to take stock of his mind's condition but his thoughts kept spinning back to Gregor's words. He couldn't find it in him to analyse his feelings about the situation at hand... he had no idea, if he was feeling anything at all right now apart from... well, confusion, really. Did that mean he'd finally lost it? How far gone was he, really, that the completely irrational hope of a teenager concerning the whereabouts of a person said kid barely knew could shake him off balance like this.

Maybe John was making more out of it than it really was. It was just a mere sentence, after all. Just a few words. But, God, that _look_ in Gregor's eyes as he'd said them. He seemed so utterly _convinced_ of knowing something that he couldn't or wouldn't tell a stranger like John. Keep something secret. For _who_? _Why_?

Fucking hell, now he definitely seemed to turn to paranoia.

_Get a grip, damn it! You knew they still believed in him when you started this, so you're not going to lose it over one of them saying it out loud. _

John took a deep breath and finally got up, wandering into the kitchen and starting to clean up his medical kit and the used mugs.

After John had forced himself to only concentrate on stitching up the boy's wound and to push everything else into a far corner of his mind for later inspection, he'd made Gregor the promised hot cup of tea and given him some leftovers from the stew. He had offered him the sofa for the night as well, but Gregor might have sensed the sudden change of atmosphere inside the room and had taken his leave soon after. Not without promising to spread the word further, though.

John sighed. Without the war constantly buzzing and ravaging all around him, his thoughts had far too much opportunity to run in circles and he felt senseless nothingness creeping in once more, lurking at the edges of his sanity.

Turning, he caught sight of himself in the fireplace mirror and wasn't surprised to find the old haunted look in watery eyes again. Granted, his skin had the healthy tan of the soldier recently returned from abroad, but his expression shattered any illusion of being 'fine' as he already restarted to confirm to everyone asking. Determined not to go under like this, John nodded firmly at his reflection and went to get his morning routine done, forcing himself to enjoy the luxuries of a private hot shower and electrical shaving kit.

He then made himself a fresh cuppa- with the full intent of drinking it this time- and set to write a few apology emails to his team. Thanks to Mycroft's sort-of-kidnapping yesterday morning he hadn't had a chance to explain anything to his comrades- hell, Hadan hadn't even woken up from general anaesthetic after surgery yet. Having performed the surgery himself, John knew Hadan would probably be fine, but leaving his friend behind like this simply didn't feel right. He also took it upon himself to write a detailed email to Hadan's wife Badawi about what had happened to her partner and the father of their three children and the unborn baby. John knew she would appreciate all the information she could get on the situation. He also knew that the army wouldn't bother except for the absolute necessary bits. Badawi was a strong woman with even stronger instincts and excelled in making the best out of almost everything, but losing her husband would break her just like it would every other loved one. John needed to make sure that she knew that Hadan was safe, at least for the time being.

When that was done, it was just past nine in the morning- still too early for meeting Greg at the Yard. So John resigned himself to some painkillers for his shoulder as he started writing up everything he knew about Moran, while once carefully buried memories resurfaced and fired at his nervous system mercilessly. He would stop by Mycroft later and hand in the information to be done with it. And while at it, he could just pick up the credit cards so he would be free to restock meds whenever he needed to.

John walked down the crowded corridors at NSY, all too aware that almost every pair of eyes in the offices and hallways he crossed was following him curiously. There even was the occasional whisper behind his back when he turned around yet another corner- transmitting enough pity, suspicion and hunger for new gossip that it made him sick. Ignoring them all, John reached Greg's office and knocked.

A muffled sound somewhere between a "yeah" and a "yup" came from behind the door. John grinned and, upon entering, found his hunch about the sandwich Greg was munching confirmed. "Tasty?" he asked with a smirk.

"You bet," Greg answered, swallowing and putting his lunch aside, motioning for John to take a seat. "Thanks for making it."

"Yeah. Now that you're mentioning it- what exactly am I doing here?" John asked, genuinely confused.

Greg slid a file across the tabletop. When John opened it, there were dozens of photographs to be revealed inside. Frowning, John picked up a few and inspected them more closely- there were shots taken from an unusual angle, from wide distances, and sometimes blurry or grainy quality as if the photographer had observed the target from afar and without their notice. Stake out pics. Some of them showed Moran- in combat clothing, in camp, on patrol, on training. Further into the pile there were shots with Moran obviously on the hunt, lining up his sniper rifle and fixated on some target in the distance. Printed out newspaper articles- some local, some from Afghanistan, others from Iraq and even Ireland, some dated back into the 1980s- followed the photos. All reporting on massacres, men slaughter, burning villages, unauthorised attacks, failed operations due to information leaks.

_Jesus Christ._

Men hunting, indeed, that bastard. So he hadn't been tipping off the legal scale and betraying the army _after_ John had last seen him- he had been a cold blooded serial killer all along while he'd trained John as a young private on his sniper skills.

John paused in his run-through of the photos. In those next ones, Moran seemed to be deep in conversation with an elderly gentleman, complete with designer suit, shiny shoes and silver walking cane. In fact, there was a whole set of pictures showing Moran and that ominous man discussing some unknown topic or another in various urban surroundings, indicating a time frame of at least a few days if not whole months at which these meetings had occurred. John looked up, eyebrows drawn together.

"Yeah, we're running him now," Greg offered. "Seems to be a pretty big fish in the pond, though. With that attire and in that kind of charming company he needs to be either very rich, stupid and bored, or very godfather. Although, we did already check back with the guys at Organised Crime and they hadn't heard of him, so he doesn't seem to be a member of the local mafia families." He cleared his throat. "Look at that last bit in the file," he added tentatively.

John returned his eyes to the paper collection in his lap, turning a few pages-

And staring down at his own face.

He flipped and turned photo after photo, discovering reports, medical details, records about each and every single one of his tours- and his exact moves on those tours. It was the disturbing combination of his complete army file and his medical record- dating back to his _birth_. There even was some information about the genealogical tree of his parents. And the same long-distance stake out shots of him that had been collected on Moran as well, starting very early in his military career. For fuck's sake, he could see himself age on those pictures taken without his consent or even knowledge.

At the end of it all stood a detailed list marked 'Desirable Characteristics of Subject', which had aspects ticked off like 'No Congenital Diseases', 'Educated/Intelligent', 'Fearless', 'Socially Flexible/Uncommitted', 'Crack Shot', 'Good Stamina', 'Superior in hand-to-hand Combat', 'Superior Muscular Structure', 'Equipped to give Medical Treatment' (this one was provided with a small side note: 'Trained Surgeon')- the list seemed endless and basically described him as the new stud dog on a breeder's competition.

His shock must have shown in his expression as he emerged from the horror show in front of him, closing the file without preamble and tossing it back onto the desk. Greg winced in sympathy. "Yes, Ms Adler and those she got that data from seem to have been very thorough. As far as I can tell this is your whole life story."

John groaned and ran his hands over his face. "It fucking is. I had no idea this existed- I know for a fact that it is far more than what even Mycroft got about me."

Greg raised an eyebrow at that.

John waved his hand. "I might have wondered out loud about the content of my file in the hand of the British Government once and... Sherlock might have thought it a nice way to unnerve his brother, so he might have broken in and made copies of everything- I still got the complete collection stored away in a safe place at the flat."

Greg rolled his eyes with a somewhat fond half-smile on his lips. "Yeah, don't know why I even bothered asking."

"Who has seen this, then?"

"Just me and the guy who's on duty in the IT Department- um, Jonas, I think it was. I'll try to keep it out of the evidence section, don't worry." He hesitated. Then, "John, I can imagine this is the last of what you probably want right now, but I need to ask you if you'd want an officer at your side for the upcoming days."

John didn't need to think about this before he immediately shook his head. "Absolutely not." He saw Greg deflating a bit at that and added, "Look, I am used to watch out for myself, right? And Mycroft is out there, obviously with nothing better to do than to set his complete surveillance equipment and his agents on my tails, so I think I'm pretty much sorted, really."

The DI seemed to prick up his ears at that, "You've been followed? Since you came back from Syria?"

"Yes, pretty sure about that. Why?"

Greg was already searching for his phone and, upon locating it in his breast pocket, began dialling. "I know for a fact that Mycroft Holmes didn't have you tailed other than via CCTV since you've been back. He agreed to grant you _some_ privacy until we'd know more about the current situation-" he broke off and turned to the speaker of his phone, apparently addressing the person on the other end of the line, "Yes, we seem to have a third party involved."

John was out of his seat even before Greg had ended the call.

"Where are you going, John?" he asked incredulous, with a hint of worry in his voice.

"Back to the flat," John answered shortly.

Greg jumped up. "No, no, no. I know you're not someone to keep your feet still at the moment, but it's reckless to spend any time out there alone."

John turned and shook his head. "If they wanted me killed, I'd be dead already." He thought back to the situation in the park yesterday. He'd clearly been followed, but they hadn't confronted him, merely observed from afar, no sniper or attacker in sight. "They had plenty of opportunity to shoot me, or abduct me, or what have you. But they kept their distance, not even attempting to send a warning by making themselves known- I doubt they even realised I got suspicious, and I wasn't able to spot them. Worrying about this is ridiculous and I won't give Mycroft permission to turn me into 'Enemy of the State' just because some homeless teenager wanted to check if I could be trusted-"

Ah, shit. That might have been a bit not good.

As feared, the DI got interested in a blink. "And what is that supposed to mean?" Greg crossed his arms in front of his chest, attempting his 'No-nonsense-Sherlock' pose and managing to send a jolt of bitter sweet memories through John's nerves.

"Nothing."

"Oh, come on!" he growled agitated. "You can't believe I'm buying that! One single shot through a window in the middle of the damn night to clear a serial killer off the streets is one thing, John. But I can't let you turn your flat into an unregistered surgery!"

John's voice was now rising in kind as he spread out his arms, wrapped up in hurting past. "He was going to take that damn pill, Greg! For God's sake, I only just had found him!"

"I know!" Greg shouted. But then he faltered, his expression turning regretful. "I know, John." A resigned sigh. "I know you just did what you always did when it came to him, alright? And I'll continue to turn a blind eye on that one. – And the damn gun you like to carry around in the back of your trousers, by the way."

John winced.

"But," Greg continued, "I can't let you turn vigilante. You're risking too much with that- and I'm not just talking about general welfare."

John took a step closer, lowering his voice. "I promise I'm not doing anybody any harm, Greg. I just open my door for people who need medical help but simply can't afford long-term treatment in a public facility- or feel they can't trust the authorities."

"Where do you get your meds?"

"They're self-regenerating."

"John."

"Seriously. I saw it happen just the other day- you wouldn't believe what that undiscovered-virus-contaminated fridge is capable of doing by now." He kept a straight face throughout; pretty sure he was looking to all the world as if he couldn't even bear to kill a fly.

Greg's serious mask threatened to slip into a smirk. "You crazy lot," he said at last, shaking his head partly in disbelief and partly in fond exasperation.

John grinned. "Cheers, mate. I really do appreciate your help in this. I mean it," he added honestly relieved.

Greg nodded. "I know. You better. Just try to keep a low profile, okay? If this hits public attention I won't be able to back you up. And do get that magic fridge briefed on this as well."

John nodded and turned to leave the Yard before Mycroft or his minions could get in the way, already typing out a text for Sarah.

XXX


	13. Chapter 13

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**Part 2 - Chapter 7**

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**Date: May 3****rd****, 2013. 0545 hours.**

**Position: ****221 Baker Street**** (51° 31′ 24″ N, 0° 9′ 30″ W****)****, City of Westminster, London, England.**

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The next few days had passed by pretty much uneventful- almost too uneventful for John's liking- and he could feel the burning need in the back of his head to get a somewhat normal routine started for his daily business.

Slowly, he found himself returning to the numb, good doctor who could function in a perfectly steady, civilised world, kept up appearances and took care of the household with a precision only a man very determined and very bored could afford.

Some homeless patients came to consult him, but other than a redressing for Gregor's stitched up and nicely healing wound, a persistent cough, and a sprained ankle on an elderly woman named Francesca, there wasn't much for him to do apart from offering a hot cuppa, a shower and, on occasion, some clean and undamaged clothes. He had adopted the habit of keeping a pot of fresh stew in the fridge and fresh bread in the cupboard to refill some empty stomachs.

In return, his visitors told him about all the little facts and evidence concerning Sherlock's innocence they had collected over the past months. Mostly, it proved that the detective had been in a completely different part of town or even country to solve yet another case whenever Moriarty's crime syndicate had committed a murder or some other illegal activity.

John stored each and every little piece away carefully, sometimes writing down hints and timelines, descriptions of suspects and overheard witness testimonies himself, whenever his guests didn't have the information on paper. Up until now, they had gathered enough circumstantial evidence to clear Sherlock off at least three separate crimes.

Each new hint let him sleep a bit better at night- not that the nightmares stopped. Far from it. Now that he couldn't work himself into exhausted oblivion over the days, the dreams had picked up their frequency again. But he sometimes got a whole five hours rest in a row and he didn't wake up anyone with his screaming when it inevitable came. That was good progress.

Today, John sat up in bed, stretched and found that, hey, 6 am was better than last night's 2:30 and the two cups of tea until he nodded off for another 50 minutes with a stiff shoulder- so he figured he could as well get up now. Not bothering with a bathrobe, he grabbed a fresh towel and clean pants and made his way downstairs to take a shower.

He wasn't even halfway down the first flight, though, when his sleepy brain finally kicked in and he suddenly realised that he wasn't alone in the flat.

Useless now to try and cover up his presence- his heavy, unassuming steps so far had undoubtedly alarmed any intruder already. So he kept up his normal pace and, upon reaching the landing in front of the sitting room door, pressed himself with his back against the wall and grabbed the candleholder on the drawer next to him.

And listened.

He could feel every muscle in his body drawn tight in anticipation. He waited. Assessing. Were they armed? They were definitely alone- at least considering the soft, barely audible breathing pattern behind the half-closed door. Maybe another one was hiding down the corridor by the bathroom, though.

John closed his eyes and levelled his heartbeat down, slowing the intake of oxygen to get more time for reacting in between breaths. He simply had to hope that the intruder was alone and not carrying a gun- his own was lying inside the small drawer on top of the living room table, safe and sound. He had to do without.

One second. Two. Concentrating on that one outburst of strength necessary to propel him around and forward, he took one last deep breath-

There was the distinct shuffle of an expensive shoe and the _'tock'_ made when an umbrella made contact with wooden floorboards silently.

John groaned and stepped into the flat. "I am not agreeing to extra surveillance even if you break into the flat before breakfast."

Mycroft eyed his barely clothed form with an unreadable expression. "Yes. Detective Inspector Lestrade was so kind as to let me know about your... determination on that matter," he answered smoothly.

"Why are you here, then?"

"A new development," he stated in his aloof manner, obviously expecting to receive an eager inquiry for details.

"Any immediate danger for innocent civilians?"

Mycroft frowned a bit at this apparently somewhat unexpected reaction. "Nothing we could prevent at the given time."

"Great," John replied with a set expression, "Then I'm taking a shower first, get something on and have a cuppa. Feel free to wait." And with that he turned, re-entered the flat through the kitchen door and went to get his morning routine done, leaving the posh git to try and hide his surprise.

When John finally came back downstairs, he made Mycroft (who was, in fact, still waiting) and himself some fresh Earl Grey. He handed the older man a mug and sat down in his old comfy armchair.

A somewhat tense silence followed, while both were lost in the fleeting comfort the warm brew could offer.

When Mycroft took a sip, John witnessed him closing his eyes for a second and humming almost inaudibly. "I can see the appeal," he mumbled softly.

John raised an inquiring eyebrow. "Sorry?"

"Nothing," ignored him Mycroft as usual in such cases and instead handed him yet another file. "My men were able to identify the gentleman who appeared to have a greater interest in Colonel Moran on those photographs you saw."

"Oh? So who's he, then?"

"Charles Augustus Magnussen. Professional warlord on a very high standard. He specialises in data acquisition and large scale information management in order to achieve more power and more money. He is the controlling, grey eminence in the background on almost every single political battlefield in the Middle East and is listed in the Top 100 of the richest people alive."

John felt his features changing into a sour grimace as he skipped through the file. Magnussen seemed to enjoy turning whole nations from peaceful coexistence to nemesis by leaking potent information at cleverly timed and placed positions. Many of the wars John had fought in where amongst the list of conflicts that started with one or another snowball that Mycroft's agents had been able to trace back to Magnussen as their ultimate origin. John looked up with a worried expression. "So somehow Moran got this guy's attention and then what? Magnussen encourages Moran to set up massacres?"

"Very effective, don't you think?" Mycroft answered. "We don't have enough solid proof as of yet, but it is highly possible that Moran was the one responsible for starting the riot that ultimately led to the Hula massacre. You know the consequences of that one very well: distrustfulness, suspicion- a political uproar, increasing tension between states, and receiving a very great deal of media attention. New weapons and more soldiers acquired- Christmas for a warlord."

"Jesus," John breathed. "So, you think those two are collaborating in the kidnappings as well? This doesn't seem like Magnussen's usual agenda."

"Hm," Mycroft agreed. "It does fit surprisingly well, though, when you align the dates of the incisive developments in active warzones with the increase in reports about vanished shipments of medical and genetically relevant material. The most recent cases of which happen to be almost directly followed by the happenings in Talil and the now spreading rumours about poison gas stored in Syria."

_Medical and genetically relevant material._

John clenched his fist lying in his lap, feeling his fingers going numb. "So this really _is_ some kind of sick genetic experiment going on with those kidnapped women, with Irene?" In his mind he saw the reports on the executed young women, most of them having recently given birth and all of them somehow related to active warzones- was this how they had unintentionally attracted Moran's attention? The collection of all that data about John's own life and military career surpassed only by that macabre assessment of his physical and mental attributes on Irene's camera phone burned behind his closed eyes and he started getting sick.

Mycroft nodded, apparently having read enough in John's body language to know what he was thinking. "Yes, indeed. The ultimate soldier, the new race. At this point we are quite certain that we'll find an encompassing collection of data and possibly even DNA of soldiers from all over the world, yours included, when we discover the respective laboratories. This investigation has been updated to high priority."

"This doesn't make sense. Regarding the dates on which those women might have met Moran in the Middle East and all those reports about stolen medical and scientific goods, this clearly must have been going on for months if not years. If Moran is indeed Magnussen's handler and I somehow happen to be some kind of breeding dog, then why was he trying to kill me in Helmand? He _is_ a crack shot, but there was no chance in hell he could have predicted I'd survive- damn it, not even the soldier who finally found me thought me still alive at first."

Mycroft had the audacity to shrug. "Our information doesn't suggest an equal relationship between those two. Moran is most likely hired and bribed by the prospect of getting to indulge in his favourite illegal pastime of men hunt. It's possible that he simply acted upon personal reasons. You openly opposed to his lifestyle and attitude towards other people's wellbeing, after all, refusing to use your training to achieve his goals."

"Revenge. Seriously? Because I fucking prefer to have some moral standards?"

"Petty, I agree," Mycroft raised a perfectly trimmed eyebrow. "Although, the fact that your data is still inside that file indicates Ms Adler's conviction of its current importance to the project. Magnussen might not have been very pleased about your critical endangerment this early on."

John nodded, trying to follow the chain of thoughts. "You think that's why Moran's here in London now, executing those poor women instead of setting up massacres in his favourite warzone? Magnussen is controlling him?"

"Maybe to a higher degree than we previously assumed. By finding the Colonel and the facility we might be able to get to the actual manipulator behind the whole scheme. Moran has already proved to have a mercenary's loyalty. Under the right questioning technique he might decide to bend."

The next moment, there were too chimes of phones to be heard in the relative quiet of the flat. As Mycroft pushed open his suit jacket to retrieve the interfering item, John was surprised to find that his own had a new text as well.

With raised eyebrows he read. 'Two girls reported missing about an hour ago. Vanished since yesterday evening. Profile matching the other victims. -GL'

Shit.

It didn't take 60 seconds, though, until there was a second message. 'Holy fuck, can you come down here? One of the girls apparently managed to escape; she's in A&E. Could use your professional opinion.'

Mycroft was already standing, straightening his clothes. "Well, it seems like we both have things to attend to. Do try to stay out of the headlights, would you. It's quite time consuming to cover up your dabbling into the illegal side of Sherwood Forest now and again."

John smirked and barely waited for Mycroft to leave the room, before he turned to the desk and retrieved the Browning. He grabbed his jacket and hurried down the steps to flag down the next best cab to take him to the Yard.

"Wow, that was quick," Greg said in greeting when John jogged down the few metres to the front desk of NSY where the DI had been waiting for him.

"Well, you did say 'A&E', so I figured there might be no guarantee as to how long you'll be able to talk to her- how is she, anyway? She's in surgery?"

"No, she's a lucky girl. Got a nasty head wound and bloody wrists from when she had forced herself out of the handcuffs that held her, apparently. Nurse wouldn't tell me anything more on the phone, though."

They had been heading to Greg's car as they were speaking.

After a short silence, Greg cleared his throat. "So," the DI started, "How have you been these last days, then? Re-adjusting and all. Must be quite the nuisance, I can imagine."

Settling into the car, John flinched inwardly upon the easy words. "I'm fine."

"Yeah. You know, I might not be a certain genius but even I can see that that's bullshit, right there."

John focused on the road ahead while they were mending through the heavy traffic of morning's rush hour. He could feel Greg looking over at him.

"Listen..." Greg hesitated, "It's probably not my place to say... and I'm by no means an expert on these matters, but you look like shit, mate."

John could feel himself swallow at the forming lump in his throat. He tried to ignore it.

"It isn't the war, right? What you miss," Greg then added softly.

"Of course it isn't," John said.

Greg nodded thoughtfully.

Then, "Does this case stuff- the investigating and theorising- help at all? Or am I actually making it worse?" he asked, smiling sadly.

John's expression answered in kind. "Both, I guess."

Another small nod.

"But it's good to not have too much time to be alone with my thoughts, you know. When I can hear myself think it usually turns ugly," John added quietly.

Greg winced in sympathy.

"So, yes. I really do appreciate it, Greg."

"Good," the DI answered simply. They both fell silent once more, for the rest of the ride lost in their own heads.

Greg led the way when they finally arrived at the hospital, parting closed doors and making all kinds of hospital personnel hurrying aside for them to pass by, pushing his police badge held in his outstretched hand in front of everyone's nose, who bothered so much as looking in their direction. John hurried after him, feeling something of the older man's urgency settle in his own bones, too. This woman would be the first of Moran's kidnapped victims to escape _and_ survive. She might be having vital information to some of the hot spots of this complot.

They were told that the victim had already been transferred to a room- which was a good sign, meaning there weren't any injuries that needed surgery or constant monitoring.

"Good morning, Ms Lebark," Greg greeted upon entering the sick chamber. She was a young brunette with slightly ruffled long hair and keen, if tired, green eyes. "I'm Detective Inspector Lestrade and this is-"

She didn't even let him so much as finish his sentence when her gaze settled on John- "You're Captain Watson!" Her beautiful eyes widened with something John could only identify as amazement.

He felt his eyebrows draw together in confusion. "Um... I'm honourably discharged, actually. But, yes, I'm John Watson," he admitted. "Nice to meet you, Millie." His doctor instincts automatically told him she would be more comfortable on a first name basis.

"Oh, I'm sorry," she clasped a hand over her mouth. "You must think I'm nuts or something. But, well...," a short hesitation, "I just came back from a tour in Homs myself before this..." she indicated her bandaged temple and her general position in a hospital bed, "- happened."

"Oh?" So she was a veteran as well?

There came a dozen questions and pictures of sand and sun and tented cantinas and bonfires flooding into his mind, but before he could even think about starting to revel in recent memories with a comrade, she was already leaping straight into it:

"I met two of your team, there, bringing in a third for hospitalisation. Um, Lieutenant Halan... Haydon?"

"Hadan?" His mate hadn't answered his email yet and even though John knew how things worked out there, he had started to worry. Might be an ingrained reflex these days. "Were you able to talk to him? How is he, then?"

"Yes, he's fine, Sir," Millie answered respectfully. John caught himself wondering about her rank just as he glanced over to Greg who was flashing him a sight of her file: Lance Corporal.

She continued, apparently oblivious about the short exchange- or very professional even in her actual state. "He did ask me to send his regards when he heard I'd be heading home to London shortly after. I never thought I'd meet you for real, though," she smiled up at him, her eyes gleaming. "Your men talked about you and what you did in Talil all the time, Sir. It's truly an honour."

"Thanks for your kind words, but I probably don't deserve them," he said softly. "I really only did my job, as we all do try our best when out there. And it's just 'John', please."

She chuckled. "He said you'd do that."

"Sorry?" John asked.

"Lieutenant Hadan," Millie specified. "He said you wouldn't want to get complimented or thanked for saving so many out there. He said you were the very definition of modesty. I think he was probably right, now."

"I'm really not," he answered honestly. "I think it's far more remarkable for you to get out of captivity. How are you feeling?" he asked, trying to get back on track and out of the awkward and misdirected centre of attention.

Again, she answered instantly and without qualms. "Well, they say it will probably be a few weeks for my wrists to heal and they had to reset my arm." Ah, yes. Greg had said she escaped from being handcuffed. She seemed to be tough. "Otherwise, I'm quite alright. The wound on the temple is just a scratch from when Moran hid my head while kidnapping me, really."

John perked up on this. "You know who did this to you?"

He could feel Greg shift in interest beside him, getting his notepad ready.

Millie nodded gravely. "We all know 'Colonel' Sebastian Moran, don't we?" the rank was spoken with so much sarcasm and distaste that John wondered what exactly she did have heard. "He's as legendary as you, John, but for far less honourable reasons. He did captivate me from behind, but I saw him pass by the cells once, fleetingly. I'm positive that it was him, though."

Now, Greg was there, taking over the conversation and easily turning it into an interrogation of witness. "Were there others held captive with you?"

She focused on him. Extra layer of obedience firmly back in place. "Yes, Sir. There was a girl, about my age, probably a bit younger. She said her name was Liz. I think she arrived the same day as I," her eyes grew dark and regretful with the sorrow of someone who knew they did what they had to but hated it nonetheless. "I'm sorry I couldn't get her out as well."

"We know that you weren't in any position to do so," John said, as he saw that Greg had missed her mood swing, "It's alright; you did well."

She relaxed a bit.

"Could you give us the location where you were held?" Greg asked.

Millie's gaze switched places again. "Of course, Sir."

"Would you tell John, then, please? We'll get an officer to take down everything you can remember, alright? Every detail might help. I'll have to step out for a moment- we better get you some police protection while you're in here. And keep the curtains drawn," Greg said, already turning to the door, pulling out his phone. Clearly extra steps had to be taken, now that it had become clear that Millie would be a prime witness, probably having seen far more of Moran's and Magnussen's plan than they might have predicted- but surely shortly would realise.

Millie nodded again and Greg cast John a short look before he turned and left the room, phone at his ear.

John stepped up to the bedside and handed her his own notepad and a pen.

She took it and began writing. "... So, you're with the police again?"

'Again'?

Millie seemed to notice his renewed confusion. "Oh, I became 'homesick' almost the day I arrived back from Syria, so I thought about it a lot and I got curious, so I... might have researched you. A bit. Hope you don't mind," she added hastily.

"No, of course not. Would be nice, if you didn't give too much of the Daily Mail articles from last summer, though," John grimaced.

"I skipped through them, but, frankly, I think they're bullocks. I found your blog, too, of course. Did all of that really happen? It's real, yes?" She had abandoned the notepad, lying forgotten in her hand, focussing her big, green eyes on John instead.

'_Of course, it is!'_ he almost shouted. Barely concealed anger brimming to the surface again. _'He was a greater man than all of those arses together,'_ he wanted to say. "Yes. It is," was what came out.

Millie looked at him, interest and eagerness flashing up in her gaze. "Was it him, though? The one you were hoping to find upon returning home? If you don't mind me asking, that is. Lieutenant Hadan mentioned something like this when we were talking. That you were searching for your lost love."

John couldn't help the short, sad laugh that escaped him. "Yes, Hadan would say that, that bastard," always trying to make him smile again- even from half way around the earth. It wasn't John's place, though, to lead Millie to false conceptions. "... I'm afraid you misunderstood, Millie," he said quietly. "I'm... I won't be able to find Sherlock- I'm mourning him."

"Oh!" she exclaimed. And after a few seconds, her eyes widened when she seemed to grasp the complexity of the underlying meaning, "Oh, my God, I'm so sorry! I assumed those reports where bullshit. So, he did jum- Oh shit, that was tactless. Just shut up, Millie."

John smiled sadly, coming to her rescue. "You don't have to apologise. You couldn't know."

She seemed miserable either way. "But I am. I'm truly sorry for your loss, John."

After all this time he still didn't have it in him to actually try and find out how to respond to such honest condolences. Seeing others, strangers even, hurting for his grief was difficult on so many levels. And he was tired, so tired. And fucking lonely. "Thank you. I'd like to say it's alright, but."

"I can't even imagine how it must be like for you," she answered, surprisingly understanding. "You're not back home out of your own volition, are you? – God, I can barely stand acting as a civilian again and it was just my second tour. And there wasn't much hardship to go through at all. Unlike you..." she trailed off, looking truly worried now.

"Look," she suddenly said, "I might be terribly overstepping every boundary existing, but... would you like to get some coffee, someday? – Just to talk and, you know, be back home from duty together, share a few memories?"

An offer of a tiny bit less loneliness. Getting to talk to someone who could, for once, really understand the misery of being back, of having to re-adjust to the calm and the quiet and the sometimes hypocritical seeming peace. "Yes, I'd like that."

Millie's face lit up and she quickly finished her notes, turned a page and scribbled down a number. She looked up and handed it back.

He smiled at her. "Get well soon, then. It was nice meeting you, Millie."

"Likewise, John," she answered as he hurried out of the room to get the information to Greg.

XXX


	14. Chapter 14

.

**Part 2 – Chapter 8**

.

**Date: June 14****th****, 2013. 2355 hours.**

**Position: ****221 Baker Street**** (51° 31′ 24″ N, 0° 9′ 30″ W****)****, City of Westminster, London, England.**

.

"God, I swear this is getting weirder by the minute, man," Greg moaned where he sat on John's couch. "I doubt we'll be able to find anything useful or even trustworthy about this Magnussen guy." He took a long draught from his beer bottle and sighed, "And this little shit Moran jumped off the radar as soon as we found that lab. Not a single trace from him or his known contacts since."

"I know," John said, trying to sound calm and rational. "It really seems like a dead end... but at least you did find out about that lab, right? That's one operating base less. Maybe it had even been their only one. And you've got two surviving witnesses who will testify against Moran once the case made it to court," he thought about Millie and how lucky they've been to find the desperately dehydrated Liz still alive upon storming the lab Millie had pointed them to. These days, those two women were mostly huddled up together, seeking comfort in a shared, bitter experience. "Either way, as long as Moran tries to keep a low profile he can't really do much about the original plan," John took a small sip from his drink and cringed, putting the bottle down again.

Greg drew his eyebrows together upon seeing this. "What is it? Beer gone stale?"

John shook his head. "No, sorry. Just kind of feels like the wrong night for drinking, that's all."

The older man next to him seemed to pick up on John's mood frighteningly easy. "Hm. ... Any news from Harry?"

John smirked humourlessly and stood up to make his way over to the kitchen. "Not much, as we're in a no-talking-episode, apparently. She's still off the booze and she seems to hold up bravely, though." Greg hummed in sympathy as John filled the kettle with fresh water. "Care for a cuppa?" he asked over his shoulder.

"Yeah, why not. Might actually get some paperwork done tomorrow, if I keep my head clear," there was a soft smile in his voice, then. "You know I'm actually glad you didn't go back to Syria. It was fucking boring around here, what with Anderson and Donovan bickering as the only distraction I got."

John took the steaming mugs back to the coffee table and took a grateful sip from his hot tea. "Cheers. Frankly, it wasn't my first choice of plan, though. But with the case still ongoing and Moran on the run, Mycroft wouldn't clear my medical file. I couldn't have shipped myself out even if I wanted to."

They fell silent when the clock turned to 0:00.

In less than 12 hours it would be one year. They both knew what the other thought about right at this moment and they both tried to ignore the sudden dread in the room so they wouldn't actually have to speak about it. About the friend Greg had lost. And the accomplice in crime fighting. About the heart, and the life, and the home John had buried. About the son in everything but blood Mrs Hudson missed so dearly.

John gripped the photo through the fabric of his breast pocket, shut his eyes tight and wished, for the thousandth time, for his miracle.

- That was when Mrs Hudson's bloodcurdling scream pierced through the house and all hell broke loose.

John was on his feet and running down the stairs in a heartbeat, Greg only one second behind him. They sprinted through the dimly lit hallway and threw open the door to his landlady's quarters. She was crouching on the cold tiles of her kitchen, wrapped up in only her morning gown, clutching her trembling hands before her open mouth as if her body was still scared to death but had forgotten how to make any sound at all.

John followed her watering gaze to the open backdoor, cool night air drifting in.

There, propped up against the doorframe, was a tall figure, their height clearly recognisable even though they were hunched over at the moment. They wore a black hoody and stained, ripped trousers with dark, worn off, ill fitting shoes. Auburn stubble barely visible under the drawn hood. They panted heavily, breath rattling in their lungs, and pressed their arms to a dark, wet stain on the fabric. There was blood running down their long, slender fingers, dripping to the floor.

'_Homeless emergency,'_ it shot through John's brain, just as he heard the soft metallic _cling_ from Greg's weapon being lined up in warning.

"Easy, buddy! You just broke into a private home," he talked to the intruder like one probably would to a junky, craving for the next hit and unaware of their actions. "No sudden moves, right. You don't want this kind of trouble," -a humourless chuckle came from the bleeding figure- _Oh, God._ "We'll keep it calm and everything will be fi-"

"-No, Greg- wait ..."

John was moving without realising it, his feet making it over to the shaking person on their own volition, because he'd be damned if he wouldn't recognise this chuckle _every_where, even pressed and pained as it had been just now, and how was this happening, oh, God, how was this his life that started to pulse through his veins again, thrumming through his heart thought lost. It should have pushed his feet away from under him, should have sent him tumbling to the floor like the splintered and slowly reassembling shards of his very soul.

Instead he felt his vision and his senses sharpen, his mind focus, slipping into doctor mode with ease, because, no, no, _no_, this was way too much blood and way too shallow breathing, and shaking, shaking-

When Sherlock's broken body suddenly gave out under him, John barely caught him. He sunk to the floor with his best friend in his arms. Staring down into the bruised, unconscious face. And wishing. Wishing for the first time in twelve months _not_ to wake up.

Between Greg and John they managed to carry Sherlock through to Mrs Hudson's spare bedroom and quickly laid him down on top of the covers. As soon as he could convince the barely conscious man to loosen up his death grip on his side, John immediately pushed the dirty, soaked hoody up to get a clear view on the wound he presumed was somewhere on Sherlock's lower abdomen.

"Oh, shit, _Jesus_!" Greg's shocked words were accompanied by Mrs Hudson's pained gasp as John had exposed the damage- blood pulsing out of a gunshot wound directly under the ribcage on Sherlock's left side.

Sherlock groaned and tried to grasp the wound again instinctively to clasp down on the pain, but John firmly pushed his hand away, gripping it tightly to give Sherlock something to focus on instead. His left hand retrieved his phone from his pocket and started dialling 999 - when Sherlock's other hand shot up, gripping his wrist, his wide eyes urging him to understand. "No... no hospital! Can't. … Please. …"

One thousand thoughts barrelled through John's mind- the extreme damage that was already done, the critical blood loss, his medically scarcely sufficient surroundings and equipment, all the possible circumstances under which this wound could have happened, and Sherlock, Sherlock, _Sherlock_-

John locked gazes with him, saw the determination in those grey eyes, felt it echo in his own and nodded once, shortly. Sherlock loosened his grip on John's wrist immediately and John speed dialled number 3 on his phone, still unchanged after all this time.

After the second ring, there came the clipped reply from Mycroft, "John, what is-?"

"Mycroft, I need some medical equipment down to 221B ASAP!" John interrupted. "Check back with a nurse or a doctor, if you have any questions- I need _exactly_ those meds I name, no buts," John let go of Sherlock's hand and put the phone between shoulder and ear to take the towel Greg handed him to press it down on the bleeding hole in Sherlock's side, "Ready?" he barely waited for a reply, "Three blood bags of AB negative- if you can't get those, bring O negative- also get me some Cefuroxime-Natrium solution, Piperacillin, isotonic saline solution and TPN with components for high stress in an IV bag and a large-volume infusion pump- a battlefield specified pump would be helpful here, if you can get hold on one. But a hospital one will do as well- just make sure it's no preset computer controlled shit. And get all of this classified and not retraceable."

He hung up, tossing the phone onto the bed near Sherlock's feet to get his hand free again and kept pressing down on the wound, his eyes searching Sherlock's clouded gaze once more. He tried to keep his voice firm and steady in order to reach him through the anguish that most likely froze all rational thought inside his friend's mind right now, "Sherlock, I need you to tell me what you've taken to be able to get down to the flat."

"John..." he groaned, eyes closing in pain.

"I'm dead serious. I can't give you anything unless I know that you're clean." John ignored the anxious glances from Greg and Mrs Hudson he could feel on his back. This was _vital_. John couldn't refrain from heavy antibiotics because of the oil residues on the bullet and the dirt and fibres of the hoody brought along into the wound. But anything against the pain would be too big of a risk, if Sherlock was high. _Damnit_, he could lose Sherlock to the shock from too much pain, while trying to prevent a fucking heart attack!

"Clean..." Sherlock mumbled.

"No shit, Sherlock. You'll collapse on me in five if I give you something that's reacting with drugs in your system." Please. Please be sure about this.

"Clean... Promise."

That he would have to trust. "Right. Okay, stay calm, but stay awake, you hear me?"

Sherlock nodded weakly.

John turned to Mrs Hudson, who had brought him his medical kit and large scissors. "Bring me a bowl with warm water and a clean kitchen towel, would you. And more light!" he added to her retreating form. She turned back, nodded and immediately walked out to the kitchen to get the items, while John put on gloves and cut open the hoody, making room for surgery.

Turning Sherlock carefully onto his side in order to check his back for an exit wound and finding none confirmed John's suspicion that he would have to retrieve the bullet from Sherlock's insides.

They were lucky, though, that it most probably happened to be a low velocity missile, for a military used bullet travelling with over 800 m/s Sherlock's cardiovascular system would have instantly collapsed on impact- if it hadn't torn apart his stomach and bowel, leaving nothing there to safe in the first place. And it looked to John as if the bullet hit just below the lungs and above the gastro-intestinal tract, sparing them of intestinal contents sipping into the stomach and causing even more dangerous infections.

Sherlock gave another pained groan when John set the shot with a local anesthetic- he would really have preferred to give him more than that, but Sherlock's pulse was getting weaker and weaker by the minute and there was no oxygen to make sure Sherlock would keep breathing if something went wrong when he'd put him to sleep.

Mrs Hudson arrived with the towel and water bowl. John soaked the towel as soon as he got hold of it and began wiping away most of the blood darkening the area around the wound, while Greg adjusted the additional lamp to give John better sight. They had no medical suction device, so John had to somehow try to dab off the serous fluid and the blood gathering inside the wound canal in order to get a better chance at correctly guessing the exact position of the projectile. There better won't be any fragments of bone or the bullet itself pierced into Sherlock's thorax- he simply had no time to search out all possible secondary ruptures. He just had to hope it was an open and clean wound and go at the obvious damage.

John had cleaned the wound as thoroughly as he could under the given circumstances and quickly grabbed a fresh surgical mask before he leaned in closely, assessing the situation.

Okay.

Pretty big chance that the posterior gastric artery was very slightly ruptured- he had to do something about that first or Sherlock would soon bleed out. The angle of the wound canal seemed rather narrow, which was good. This way he could afford to ignore the head of pancreas for now- that would have needed a far deeper cut and at least one trained nurse at his side.

Sherlock growled in pain as John had to carefully follow the first part of the path the bullet had taken with his finger.

"I'm sorry, so sorry," he murmured. "Keep breathing, Sherlock. Just stay with me here. You're going to be okay," John soothed as he concentrated on the bleeding rupture inside Sherlock's torso.

"John, oh, he's still bleeding so much!" Mrs Hudson whispered.

"I know, Mrs H. We're working on that."

There was no way John could do anything about the bullet from this angle, so he had to set an additional cut in order to reach the artery, stitching it closed first and then go from there.

He knew it was awful, but there was simply no other way of making sure that Sherlock wouldn't reflexively try to push him away when John was starting to cut him open. So he pulled his belt free and tied Sherlock's wrists to the bedpost, resting them carefully on the thin pillow above his head.

He took a deep breath, wiped the area for the 10cm long cut down with iodine and set another shot with local anaesthetic- as much as he dared. Sherlock's low blood pressure was helpful concerning the reduced speed of him bleeding out, but the heart had to stay on board for the procedure as well.

"Greg," John ordered, "Come over here and hold his legs down. Press his ankles into the mattress and don't ease off until I tell you."

Greg swallowed but complied immediately. John leaned down to his friend once more, "This will hurt, Sherlock. But I need you to stay with me, alright? I have to get that bullet out of your side. We'll stitch you up in no time, okay? But you have to stay awake and push through it, you hear me?"

"...Yes."

He rolled up the dry end of the towel and put it in Sherlock's mouth so he wouldn't bite off his tongue. Sherlock's eyes were pressed closed, his breathing shallow. John had to find and stitch up that leak _now_.

He set the scalpel to the skin and carefully but quickly made the cut.

Sherlock screamed around the towel between his teeth and bucked, Greg reacted instantly and kept him down and as still as possible. New blood pulsed to the surface, but that was a necessary evil. John started to expose the punctured artery, talking soothingly, concentrating on the first stitches around the rupture.

When he was halfway through, suddenly Sherlock's head fell to the side, towel sliding out of his slack mouth; his screams and groans as if cut off.

"Fuck!" John cursed.

Greg's voice sounded alarmed, "What is it? He fainted?"

"His circulation is collapsing. He lost too much blood. Mrs Hudson, cut open Sherlock's trouser leg- right above his knee." He tried to stay detached. He tried to stay focused and calm. But this was his Sherlock dying under his hands, and _Jesus, get a grip, Watson._ He grabbed a fresh pair of latex gloves with his free left hand and held them out to the DI, "Greg, put these on and give me your hand. You have to help me, alright? Put your finger in the wound on the _exact_ same spot I have mine now, okay?" John led Greg's finger, showing him where to press down on the rupture in the artery to keep blood from pulsing out until John would be able to continue stitching it up, "You got it?"

"Yeah. Ohh… My God!"

„Press down on it and don't even move an inch. Just keep it there and press down."

John hastened to retrieve a large cannula, stepped up next to Sherlock's exposed knee, leaned over him and pressed the cannula down on Sherlock's leg with strength until he felt a muffled _crack_ when he had entered the bone. The next second he had his last bag of saline solution attached to build up the blood volume as quickly as possible. He handed the bag to Mrs Hudson. "Here, put that somewhere high up, please."

Slowly, Sherlock regained consciousness, while Greg resumed his position at his legs and John continued stitching the artery closed.

"Shh, shh. Sherlock, it's alright, you're fine. Just a bit longer."

"J'hn…"

"I'm here, Sherlock. Just try to stay calm."

"Wha… happ'n?"

"You were unconscious for a sec there. But you're back now. You're okay, Sherlock. We'll close this wound in no time. I promise."

When he was finally done with the rupture and had stopped the bleeding, there was a pretty clear view on the bullet- it had cut into the upper abdomen from below and got stuck into the second rib without causing terminal damage.

But John had barely started digging out the beast, when Sherlock collapsed again, heart stuttering and giving up. John let the scalpel fall, pushing two fingers to the pulse point at Sherlock's throat, waiting, waiting, no, _no_!

Without making the actual decision, John found himself starting reanimation, pushing down on Sherlock's breast to compress the thin mattress beneath and started pumping, taking over blood circulation for him, stopping to breathe air into his lungs one time, two times, pumping again- one, two, three, four. Breathing, breathing, "Come on, come on, come on, Sherlock, COME ON," breathing again, then pumping- one, two, three, four, five, please, God. _Let him live._ "Don't you dare die on me now, Sherlock! Sher-"

And their hearts started doing their jobs again, Sherlock coughing, gasping, disoriented and frightened.

"Hush, Sherlock. It's fine. You have to calm down, okay? Can you do that for me?" Sherlock's wildly searching gaze found John. "Everything will be alright, just hang on a little while longer. Can you do that?"

A weak nod, shallow breathing.

"Alright, love. We're almost done. You're past the worst already. Just a bit more, Sherlock."

"John…"

John started to work on the bullet again. "I'm here. I'm going nowhere." But it wouldn't do for Sherlock to panic and John could only do so much while he was operating on him, "Mrs Hudson? Come here, please. I need you to hold his hand where he can see you, and keep talking to him, yes? Sherlock, just focus on Mrs H., okay?"

Sherlock nodded once more, his eyes leaving John's only reluctantly to look over at their landlady as she began whispering soothing nothingness, even when she was covered in cold sweat herself.

John continued working, as quickly and thoroughly as possible, and finally- _finally!_- managed to get the projectile out, letting it drop into the water bowl with a hopeful _clunk_. He stitched up both the entry wound and then the surgical cut without losing another minute.

XXX

**Author's note:** Reunion at last! (Well, the first part of it, anyway.) What do you think? Too much? Not enough? Final chapter of ATT's part 2 will be up on Wednesday and then we'll move on to daily updates. :) Have a nice evening, guys. And I hope you'll join me in my attempt at ignoring the happenings of yesterday's screening and Ms Moran's bullshit.


	15. Chapter 15

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**Part 2 – Chapter 9**

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**Date: June 15****th****, 2013. 0205 hours.**

**Position: ****221 Baker Street**** (51° 31′ 24″ N, 0° 9′ 30″ W****)****, City of Westminster, London, England.**

.

He was just nodding to Greg that they were through the worst and he could let go now, as a tentative knock sounded from the front door.

"I go," Mrs Hudson said and hurried out the room. Greg sighed in relief, slumping back against the window panel.

John pulled off the bloodied gloves. "Jesus, Sherlock. That was close," he breathed. He didn't even know if he was referring to Sherlock's life or his own as he smiled down at the genius detective, stroking a short auburn curl from his sweaty, dusty forehead. Sherlock leaned into the caress, shallow breathing disturbed by a new wince when another wave of pain seemed to run through his weakened body. His forehead felt hot already and John gratefully thought about the fresh antibiotics about to arrive.

A moment later, Sherlock was slipping under once more. But the immediate check showed a steady, if faint pulse.

His torso rose and fell almost peacefully as John freed Sherlock's hands and began bandaging the wounds.

Mycroft and Anthea (or whatever her real name was) entered, in tow everything needed to turn Mrs Hudson's guestroom into a field hospital- complete with proper equipment for an emergency patient's bedside.

John felt determination set its claws into his bones again and wordlessly began setting up the machines, getting Sherlock some proper blood back into his system and more much needed painkillers. After a successful surgery it was almost easy to forget that they only heightened the chances of survival- not guaranteeing it.

Sherlock was still fighting and John would be damned if he wouldn't back him up as best as he could.

"How is he?" Mycroft's quiet voice sounded on edge as he stepped up to the bed with his sleeping, barely alive brother in it. The first blood bag started dripping its healing contents into Sherlock's veins.

John looked up from where he was busy installing the pump for the Total Parenteral Nutrition to help Sherlock's body with getting the essential nutrients while unable to eat or drink on his own at the time being.

"He's sleeping for now. I hadn't enough antibiotics until you arrived and he wasn't in any healthy condition to begin with," John sighed and checked the infusion again, satisfied that it seemed to be doing a decent job. "I'm afraid the infections on those cuts all over his body have made it too easy for the bullet wound to get internally infected already as well. His temperature is rising; he'll be feverish in an hour or two. Getting the infection down and keeping his system in working order is our most pressing problem right now," he looked at Mycroft, face set. "He's malnourished and dehydrated- I think you know far better than I where the hell he's been all this time."

"John, I never wanted-"

"No. Don't," he pressed through gritted teeth. "I don't want to hear it. Not from you. Not now. For this moment, I have a patient who is fighting for his life, all right?" His voice was low and on the verge of threatening, "After said patient somehow damaged his body to that extent that it almost would have shut down even without getting shot- while you _sat by_." He took a deep breath and tried to lock his inner turmoil up deep inside him. He had to stay rational for now. Sherlock still needed him.

When he knew he had it under control again, he locked gazes with the posh git in front of him. "If his heart will stay with us, I think that the medicines and the saline solution will help eventually, but until then it's fighting and hoping."

Mycroft nodded, apparently analysing what he had heard. "Critical condition?" he then asked softly.

"Just for the night, if we're lucky. If things go downhill from here and he's still unstable by tomorrow morning, we'll have to move him to hospital, though. No matter the consequences."

"I'll arrange something private, then, just in case. Although it might take some time. Hiding a secret patient from the governmental machinery is not exactly child's play, I'm afraid," the pained half-smile made an appearance. "Would you want to stay with him until there's more information about his progress and further accommodations?"

John stared at the older man in disbelief.

"Good God, Mycroft. Of _course_ I'll stay with him."

"You already did far more to help than you had to, John. You really have no obligation-"

"You better shut the fuck up," John hissed. "Okay? Right now. Or I'll kick you out of this room in a BLINK, brother or no."

Mycroft seemed taken aback for the better part of one second, but then quickly composed himself and straightened his posture again, nodding at John with a serious expression.

"My apologies, Dr. Watson."

John nodded shortly, feeling rather than seeing Greg smirking behind him where the DI was still propped up against the wall, arms crossed in front of his chest.

"Anything else I can… assist you with, Doctor?" Mycroft asked, carefully choosing his words.

"Yes, actually. Hang on a moment, please." He turned and walked into the kitchen, finding a notepad and a pen near Mrs Hudson's phone and began scribbling down a list. When he came back into Sherlock's impromptu hospital room, he felt a sad smile hush across his face. Amongst the medical equipment around the bed there lay a worn out- but definitely alive- auburn haired Sherlock, who looked every bit the homeless he seemed to have been at least for the last couple of months. Mrs Hudson carefully patted Sherlock's thin hand where the infusion set wasn't piercing his skin, Mycroft appeared to be discussing the case with Greg, and Anthea ignored them all while tapping away at her Blackberry. It was almost awfully domestic. For them.

"Here," John said upon approaching the British Government. "In case he'll get stable over the night, I'll need some more pain meds and new gauze by morning."

Mycroft took the list and nodded to Anthea, who followed him out the door with a distracted "Good night."

John sighed in relief when he heard the ever present _tock... tock... tock_ of the umbrella vanishing down the hallway and out to the street.

.

Greg had taken his leave soon after Mycroft and his PA, seemingly so drained out of energy he was barely standing upright anymore. He couldn't do anything for now, so John had urged him to go home and get some sleep. There hadn't been much of a fight in the overworked DI, other than some rational thought that might have told him John had a point, so he had left with the promise to check in on them in the morning before going to the Yard.

"John, dear. Shouldn't you be resting for a bit as well? You must be exhausted," Mrs Hudson's caring voice drifted over to where he sat next to Sherlock's bed. She carried a tray with tea and biscuits, looking as if she hadn't done anything else than worry over the past year. Maybe she really hadn't.

"No, it's alright," John reassured her, "I have to keep an eye on him, make sure there won't be any complications. He's bound to get a fever and someone has to be here in case he starts to cramp or gets a panic attack."

"Well, I could sit with him?"

"Thank you, Mrs H. But he might not be able to recognise us and if he starts hallucinating he might get violent, reacting to things in his head."

"Oh, that poor boy. What a mess he managed to get himself into," she tutted sadly.

John nodded, but gave a grateful smile when their landlady put a steaming hot mug of tea into his hands- the welcome warmth instantly soothing his nerves, drifting up into his tightly wound shoulder and starting to relax the muscles there.

"Well, I leave you to it then, John. But please call me, if there's anything I could help you with. I'm right down the hall."

"Will do. Thanks again." John smiled at her and watched her exiting the room, going back to bed at last. This had been a long night for her and she wasn't the youngest anymore.

John made sure that Sherlock's body was completely covered by the bedding to store some extra body heat for when the shivering fit would hit, and settled back into his chair, assigning himself to stay on guard for the rest of the night.

.

At 4 am, Sherlock's temperature had reached 39,5° C, keeping him in the throes of nightmares, his head tossing from side to side, his hands clawing into the sheets, moaning and pleading with an invisible enemy.

John had watched the fever rise almost every other minute. After the shivering, Sherlock's arms and legs where now burning up as if on fire. With the breaking of the fever John had prepared to use some cool leg compresses to get the temperature down by a degree or one and a half. As he applied them now, Sherlock kept mumbling nonsense. Some of it sounded like French, followed by softly spoken German as if he wanted to talk someone into helping him, then again bits and pieces of a conversation in Spanish. All the while his legs jerked with every real and nonexistent touch, as John carefully wrapped them up in cooling, wet towels.

After that, John sat back and waited, never stopping to talk to Sherlock in quiet, soothing words and a steady voice that hopefully didn't let on how much it pained him to see his friend like this, completely at the mercy of his genius brain running amok, tearing itself to pieces.

.

When the screams started, the fever had risen to 40,2° C and John had gone to change the towels for the third time. Suddenly, Sherlock's hand shot up, gripping John's wrist with such force that John was sure he had woken up, but the detective stared right through him with unseeing eyes, panting, "John! John, RUN!"

"Sherlock, it's me. It's okay."

"No! No!" The sheer panic that seemed to grab his friend shocked John to a deeper degree than he'd previously thought even possible and he had to sit by helplessly as Sherlock screamed in pure, untamed panic, "No, Stop! GET AWAY FROM HIM!" With that outburst Sherlock almost threw himself out of bed and John was forced to tackle him to the mattress, pressing him down while the delirious genius tried his best to shake him off in his fight with an unknown target. Nearly ripping open his wound in the process.

Then, suddenly, the struggle seemed to be too much for Sherlock's weakened, feverish body and all tension left the shaking arms from one second to the next, his elbows slumping down to the covers, his hands half-heartedly fisting into John's sleeves, "No, John… no, no, no... please... no..."

And when one helpless tear trickled down Sherlock's cheek, John couldn't take it anymore and he leaned down, right there where he sat on the edge of Sherlock's bed. Who was his patient. Who was his best friend and his family. And both, being a doctor and a soldier, told him this was probably not the best way to react to an injured, delirious man who was in utter fear due to high fever. But something terribly ugly gripped John's heart at the sight and just _squeezed _and the vigour of it propelled him forward.

"John… John… get away from him… John, run… please, please...God, please..."

He held Sherlock's face in his hands carefully, reverently, pressing their foreheads together.

He was practically caging him on top of the covers like this, though, and if Sherlock wouldn't panic and punch him he was very lucky indeed. But no such thing happened and John just held him and kept whispering "Shh, shh, it's alright, you're okay, you're safe, I'm here, I'm here, Sherlock, I've got you, it's alright, shh…" over and over and over again until his throat went dry.

And somewhere along the way Sherlock calmed down to mumbling, "John, John… John…" and when Sherlock had quieted down further to one single stuttering, rasping sigh, John leaned back and sat up again and watched as his mad genius finally fell asleep once more.

Mrs Hudson hovered in the doorway, clasping her hands before her mouth, eyes watery, as John silently refreshed the compresses.

.

By 8 o'clock in the morning, Sherlock had fought the fever down to manageable 38,1° C and had been able to sleep quietly for more than two hours straight. John was busy checking the TPN and preparing to change the dressings on the wounds, when Sherlock woke.

"J'hn," disorientated and barely audible. Panting as if waking from a bad dream.

John sat down on the bed. "I'm here. I'm here, Sherlock. You have to try and breathe easy." Some small part of him wondered about how very limited the English language could be at times.

"H'me…"

"Yes, Sherlock. You're home. And you're going to be fine. Everything's alright."

Only a shadow of his former piercing gaze swept over John's tired face at this, reading, analysing. Even as it were, John's heart stumbled and stuttered with the memorised feeling of it, missing their old life with a heavy wave of desperation and loneliness. "John… 'm so… I'm s'rry."

Something inside John threatened to give way and he squeezed his eyes shut as to better control himself. He really couldn't open that particular door just now.

"John..."

He cleared his throat. "Yes?"

"Why's... water ev'ry... wh're?" Sherlock looked at the floor in confusion.

John had to smile a bit at that. "Where's water?" he indulged.

Sherlock frowned, apparently trying to work out what was going on. "You're ... sitt'n in it."

John tentatively pushed the detective back down as Sherlock tried to get a better look at the invisible liquid. Figured that Sherlock wouldn't even be able to keep still for long while being a critically wounded patient. "Well, I wouldn't know. I can't see it. What does it look like?"

The genius appeared to search a mental map, his eyes darting back and forth, unfocused for a moment. "Hmm... maybe I'm in the sewer tun'ls again..."

God, how John had missed talking to him. Even if it was about fever induced nonsense. Witnessing that mind working something out again, hearing his voice, feeling his presence near him. It was like waking up from a coma.

John smiled as Sherlock sighed and settled deeper into the cushions. "Where were those then?"

"Amst'rd'm..." Sherlock mumbled and chided weakly, "Do keep up." He seemed to slowly sink into oblivion once more. Then, as if suddenly remembering something important, he threw his eyes open again, "John...!"

"Still here," John answered patiently.

"Have to get better samples..."

"Sherlock, you should try to sleep," he chuckled softly.

"... Stay ... don't ..." Sherlock tried to find his hand, searching blindly on top of the covers. When he couldn't seem to find it in time, he growled in frustration and gripped John's sleeve tightly instead, refusing to let him stand up.

Obviously convinced he'd want to.

"Shh, I really won't. I'll stay right here. Don't worry. Just sleep," said John and slowly resumed his work of bandaging Sherlock's punished torso, while his patient sank back under.

.

About half an hour later, John prepared a sterile syringe and a Vacutainer tube. The dirty hoody Sherlock had been wearing had long since been cut open and disposed of, so now John had no difficulty to wipe a small patch of skin on Sherlock's inner elbow with disinfect (noticing with great relief that the small scars there were all at least about a decade old), tap softly with his gloved middle finger to raise a vein, and then draw a small amount of blood. He only needed one vial for the complete blood count, but Sherlock twitched and mumbled restlessly in his sleep either way as the needle pierced his skin.

John then took his phone and dialled.

"Hello, John?" Molly's cheerful light voice sounded through the speaker. It was almost a convincing show, but John was tuned to covered weariness and worry by now. He'd done it himself long enough after all.

"Molly, you can stop worrying about him now; he's here with me since last night," he said, carefully testing his theory which had been growing in those past watchful hours, twisting and curling around the neurons in his tired brain. God, he'd been so blind, hadn't he? But then again he hardly had the emotional ability to analyse his surroundings at the time. Molly and he had never been close friends, only chatting in between Sherlock's experiments in the lab to pass the time or hunting down some food in the cafeteria. But after the funeral she'd kept in touch, invited him for drinks, showed up for visits, bringing him DVDs or cooked dinner, kept inquiring after his well being, offering help wherever she could.

He heard Molly swallow, "I... I'm not sure what you're talking about, John? And I'm... uh, you know... I should probably get back to work- We've got a new corpse in this morning. Drowned. She's a bit... um. See?"

"- Molly. We don't really have the time for this scheme anymore. I need your help with a CBC, could you do that?"

"Wha- ... What happened?" John recognised the moment when all pretence was dropped and Molly went with the changed parameters now that Sherlock needed her help. He looked back to the open door of the guestroom and to the sleeping, battered figure in the narrow bed there. _Jesus, Watson. Don't start to think about what all of this means. Concentrate on the situation at hand._

"There's been an attack-" he said then, hearing as Molly sucked in a shocked breath, "- but he's okay for now. He lost a lot of blood, though, and his wound got infected, so I need to know about his leukocyte count and the amount of the hematocrit and haemoglobin in his system to see if he needs another transfusion or a change in antibiotic therapy. I'll send someone with the Vacutainer to you in a bit, alright? Could you do that?"

Molly didn't seem to even think about it. "Of course. I'll be waiting for them in the lab. I'll get the results back to you as fast as I can, John."

"Great, thanks."

"And John? I'm so, so sorry. I really am. He said, he... he made me _swear_ not to tell anyone. I'm so incredibly sorry." She sure sounded like it, her voice trembling slightly under the emotional strain.

John closed his eyes, focussing on the here and now. This was neither the time nor the person to discuss this with and he had a patient to tend to. _Breathe in, lock the thoughts away, concentrate, breathe out, go._ "It's alright, Molly. I know you only wanted to help. And you did. It's fine."

"John..."

"Take care, okay? And thanks again for the CBC." He hung up then, not wanting to give her the chance to explain anything further. Not now anyway.

With another look over to Sherlock, John sent a text to Mycroft about collecting the sample.

.

At 9 am, Mycroft checked in on them and handed a black briefcase over to John. When he opened it with a disbelieving smirk, he actually found the promised meds and additional gauze. Shaking his head, John looked up at Mycroft, who studied his baby brother's face, the latter slightly wincing in his sleep.

"Any progress?" he asked, still not facing John.

John sighed, giving the vial with Sherlock's blood to Mycroft. "The fever is slowly going down and he's in stable condition for now. Better keep the private clinic on hold for backup, but I think he's alright here as it is."

"I am happy to hear that," he answered quietly. "Anything else?"

"Well, he's still occasionally hallucinating, but that's not unusual under the circumstances. And his wounds start to heal nicely," John offered. He knew how much Mycroft really cared about his brother, even if he couldn't show it.

"Yes," he murmured somewhat hesitatingly, "he was prone to that as a child. Sherlock catching the flu would have kept the whole household busy for nights on end."

John felt a silent smile creeping onto his lips as he thought about Sherlock growing up, roaming the hills of Somerset, diving through ditches and lakes, barely able to stop sneezing afterwards and arguing it had been for an experiment. "He'll be fine, Mycroft," he said truthfully. Sherlock was over the worst.

Mycroft turned and looked at John- for a second it seemed as if he was going to truly smile in relief, but then the mask was firmly back in place. "I thank you, John."

John shook his head, once. "You know you really don't have to."

The gaze was pure determination. "No, I think I really do."

**XXX End of Part 2 XXX To be continued XXX**


	16. Part 3- Chapter 1

.

**Part 3: The War at Peace**

(Or: Remember)

.

"_In the midst of winter_

_I'll be by your side_

_Once more_

_Hands cold and_

_Hearts beating_

_A steady rhythm_

_A telling touch."_

_- N. Gerdes_

.

**Chapter 1**

.

**Date: June 15****th****, 2013. 2114 hours.**

**Position: 221 Baker Street (51° 31′ 24″ N, 0° 9′ 30″ W ) , City of Westminster, London, England.**

.

The next hours saw John staying alerted and focused by sheer willpower and the remnants of adrenaline still running through his system.

Meanwhile, Sherlock finally left the fever and the worst of his nightmares and hallucinations behind and was able to sleep for ten hours straight. He slept through John's checking and adjusting the PTN, as well as the second and third blood bag, after John had gotten the results of CBC (the white blood cell count was high but not dangerously so. They would need to repeat the test with a new sample in a few hours to see if the antibiotics worked properly, but for now it seemed promising). Sherlock also stayed utterly oblivious to Greg's visit during the Inspector's lunch break, forcing a sandwich and a hot cup of strong coffee into John's hands and sending him outside for a couple of minutes to get a shower and some fresh air. Sherlock thankfully didn't even stir when John finally had to treat and redress his wounds. He applied as little pressure as possible but knew all the same that the removal of the bloody and therefore sticky gauze from the raw flesh underneath and the antiseptic salve would burn like hell.

All the time, John tried not to think about what they had to talk about when Sherlock felt better in a few days.

Of course he was incredibly happy and relieved to have his best friend back; to know that, against all odds and everybody's belief, he was alive and breathing and here with him.

And yet.

One tiny rational part of John also knew that all that grief and hurt and those nagging thoughts about finally giving up after all- because nothing would ever feel like being part of anything important, anything _real_ anymore- would have to be acknowledged at some point. Otherwise they would only drift apart ultimately. And that was something John wouldn't be able to stand. Not when it was something they could have prevented.

So John kept on taking care of Sherlock's shattered body hour after hour that day, fighting sleep and his own nightmares of bloodied corpses he knew would inevitably come. Internally he was torn between the need to figure out how to deal with all of this and the heartfelt wish of being able to just ignore the past year and enjoy the present.

At some point, though, he felt his reserves wearing thin. His ability to stay awake and in working order was gradually but steadily dissolving into the upcoming night that crept through the windows and ate away at the small light on the bedside table in Mrs Hudson's guestroom.

When he finally was all but dead on his feet, he barely registered resting his head on the spare pillow next to Sherlock's head, keeping a watchful eye on the detective's steady breathing. And slowly, slowly sinking under as well, drifting off into a world of misty shadows and sunburned olive groves.

.

When John came back to it, he felt something stirring beside him.

Keeping his eyes closed and his body language purposefully relaxed, his senses reached out in every direction, scanning his surroundings for enemy activity, figuring out the most effective moves to incapacitate a possible attacker-

When a long forgotten but once familiar scent hit his nostrils.

A warm, spicy fragrance of polished wood, pine cones and dried citrus, overlain now by the more uncomfortable smell of sweaty, cheap clothes and dried blood.

He opened his eyes and found himself almost nose to nose with his favourite and definitely awake and aware- if exhausted looking- genius detective.

"Hey," John whispered, voice still hoarse from his unplanned sleep.

"... Hello," came the weak reply.

John searched Sherlock's face, trying to assess his current condition. "Do you recognise me?" he asked when he couldn't find any signs of acute distress.

Sherlock seemed somewhat thrown by this, "... Of course, John."

John gave a small smile. "That's good progress then." He turned and cast a glance at the machines next to the bed. "Your vital signs seem to have stabilised themselves, too. How are you feeling?"

"Fine."

"Sherlock."

Sherlock sighed defeated, taking in a shallow breath. "Head hurts and I'm... dizzy."

"Yes," John winced in sympathy. "I'm sorry about that- it's likely because of the antibiotics. Just try to endure it for a bit longer, yes? What about your pain level? You okay for now, or would you like me to give you a higher dose?"

"It's alright…" he paused, apparently listening to his body's mixed signals. "Will be... I think."

John nodded in agreement. "Good," he said, getting up. "Alright. Try to get some more sleep, will you."

"Ah, sleeping. … Sleeping's … boring," Sherlock replied, the corners of his mouth twitching softly in an attempted grin.

"Might be. But this will all take much longer if you won't give your body the energy that's needed to heal properly."

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Alright, Doctor."

Reaching the door, John turned back for a moment. "Call, if you need anything. Mrs. Hudson is right next door."

"Where will you be?" Sherlock asked, sounding just the slightest bit alarmed.

John had to do his best to remind himself of why he really needed to get some fresh air right now, what with seeing Sherlock's weak, beaten up self lying in the bed they'd just shared and combined with that unsure look in his eyes.

Waking up next to his friend who he'd thought gone and lost forever only 24 hours ago had been overstepping boundaries on probably dozens of different scales- and not only professionally speaking. Feeling like losing his focus, John did what he always did in such a case.

"Need to pop out for a few. I'll be back, don't worry."

"I'm not worrying."

John smiled indulgently. "No, of course you're not."

.

Outside 221, John closed the door behind him, sucked in some extra oxygen-

And then he punched the wall.

Hard.

Twice.

Feeling his bones crunch and shift satisfyingly under his skin.

He then briskly turned towards the park, breathing in the fresh breeze of summer's early morning air as he walked. He felt strangely dispatched from his surroundings still. But contrary to the last months he now seemed to be able to not only realise this little detail once more, but actually give a fucking damn about it as well. He knew his fingers were too cold to be caused simply by the outside temperatures and his eyes felt swollen and heavy lidded- sleep deprivation and too much worry. And he hadn't taken the time nor had the appetite to eat properly since... blimey, when did he last have a decent meal?

When did Sherlock? God, he would have to feed him up again, won't he?

John shook his head in apprehension.

Going by the looks and John's quick examination earlier, it was not a far stretch to assume that Sherlock had lived off barely a handful of calories every other day for at least some time now. His ribs were far too prominent under tightly stretched paper skin. His fingers, always long and elegant, now were almost spidery and badly bruised with old and new haematoma. His fingernails torn and bloodied. There were scars in varying shapes and sizes all over his torso John had not seen there before... well. _Before_. Some were from knives, some looked like small burn marks, some like badly healed cuts where skin had broken under a heavy beating.

John clenched his fists in his pockets as some long forgotten, vicious anger surged through his body and he felt the beginning of a cramp in his leg rise to the surface. Whoever had done all this to Sherlock- John hoped they were locked up far, far away in some dingy shithole for the rest of their sorry lives, because the impulse to come after them was nearly overwhelming at this moment.

He knew he had a tendency to be overprotective of Sherlock, had been from their very first night out. But the images in John's head alone about what might have happened to his friend while he himself had been forced to sit at home, wringing his hands in clueless inactivity, were enough to make bile rise up his throat. Even now, knowing that Sherlock was alive and through the worst, safely tucked into bed at home, John sensed an uneasiness in his intestines, grabbing forcefully at his heart, that only grew worse the farther away he got from Baker Street.

John stopped dead in his tracks at the thought.

Okay.

This was definitely something new.

Before, John had been used to Sherlock's occasional absence from the flat, sometimes for days on end. After all, he'd had a tendency to follow fresh clues or ideas for experiments on a whim, often in the dead of the night or in the middle of one of John's shifts at the surgery. And more often than not Sherlock hadn't bothered leaving so much as a note or a quick text to inform John where he was or what he'd been up to. And John, on the other hand, had gone to medical conferences or visiting old pals from his army years abroad- once or twice even for weeks at a time.

They had been fine with this (after all, John's absence had seemed to never really register with Sherlock and he'd just kept on talking to John as usual). It had been like one of these unspoken certainties- they'd known that they both needed some time away from each other now and then, but they'd always come back home, they'd always stay together in the end.

And then Sherlock hadn't come back.

Leaving John ripped apart and shell shocked from being confronted with a turn of events he'd never before considered _truly_ possible. Suddenly, Sherlock was gone and John had been left behind for good.

After having tumbled into the proper miracle he was currently part of, John now had the feeling that even being those few metres apart was too much. A glance towards his wristwatch told him that he hadn't been walking for more than ten minutes. And yet he felt called back, as if something was completely amiss as long as he couldn't confirm with his own eyes that Sherlock was still alright, still there, still at his side and _staying_.

Ever the thick-headed bastard that he could be when provoked, John prepared to push at these newly developed emotional boundaries as hard as he dared, trying to figure out the limits of what he was able to stand at this early stage of having just discovered that Sherlock could, indeed, be part of John's life once more. He stayed away from Regent's Park this time and kept striding down Marylebone Road, focussing on the course of the street and keeping his head straight, marching his tour as if he had orders to keep going until he reached the next village outside of the bustling city's heart.

After 20 minutes, his heart was pounding as if he'd just been in a fire fight, pumping more blood into his brain and extremities in order to keep him alert and functioning in the face of an upcoming combat.

After 30 minutes, he was sweating and the pain in his bad leg was steadily increasing. He was now sporting signs of a minor panic attack- so much so that he almost expected to fall into flashbacks, triggering the PTSD.

After 35 minutes, John accepted the fact that, at least for now, being apart from Sherlock was probably not the healthiest way of life for him anymore.

He was limping back to the flat only 25 seconds later.

.

When John re-entered the impromptu hospital room in 221A, Sherlock's eyes immediately started running his body up and down, evaluating, gathering data and probably assessing John's mood. Which wasn't exactly the best, what with his heart still rampaging in his chest and his panic barely held in check.

How does one react when discovering that one's best friend came back from the dead only to almost die in one's arms again and the first logical explanation that one's sleep deprived brain comes up with is that they didn't trust one enough and/or used one's grief to their own means? All while one suddenly realises that said best friend had become a necessity akin to breathing.

John needed answers and he needed them now or he would lose himself in the maelstrom of his own doubts and fears.

Sherlock watched him standing in the open doorway, his eyes running a hundred miles an hour. They widened in recognition as John had his thoughts centred on the task ahead and turned to close the door behind him. John took a deep breath and settled into the chair next to Sherlock's bed. He could almost see the reflection of his perfectly controlled features with the volcano seething underneath in Sherlock's determined eyes.

"You have two minutes to explain why you did this, right? Not 'how', mind you. '_Why_'." John fixed him with his gaze, voice level. "Or I will walk out of here. And I won't come back." This was self-preservation and Sherlock needed to understand why this was important. Why John needed to say this. What was at stake. "And if I don't like what I hear, then I'll still go."

"John-"

"No." John interrupted the oncoming argument about the benefits of showing off at once, not feeling capable of listening to Sherlock marvelling at his own deductions just now.

Sherlock's voice was not back to its full strength but he managed to sound urging anyway. "You would probably understand it better if I could-"

"Two bloody minutes, Sherlock," John almost growled. "I need you to tell me what this is all about and I need you to tell me now. Because if you don't tell me ASAP that I was, in fact, more than a disposable end to your means, then I can see no way- you hear me- no way _at all_, how to stay here with you. So whatever it is that you want me to hear, say it now or shut it."

Sherlock held his gaze for a long minute. Finally, he took as deep a breath as he probably dared with his injured torso and started speaking. "There were three gunmen waiting for Moriarty's signal to shoot you, Mrs Hudson and Lestrade- unless I jumped off the roof."

John nearly fell off his seat. He felt himself looking up at Sherlock in shock. "... What?"

Sherlock's voice was so calm it seemed to John as if he'd spent long hours preparing for exactly this moment, lining up carefully chosen words in a steady monologue. All the while accepting every possible outcome. The thought sent shivers over John's spine.

"I was about to torture the code out of Moriarty that would have allowed me to call it all off - but the minute he realised I had found that particular backdoor, he killed himself."

"Jesus." Overwhelmed at this revelation, John tried his best to wade through the bog of disbelief and utter surprise.

"I had no choice other than to jump and make it convincing enough that the gunmen would accept it as truth," Sherlock continued quietly. "I knew beforehand that Moriarty's plan was leading up to let me die in disgrace, so I prepared everything, made it _my_ game instead. The man you saw jump and who you buried was the kidnapper of Hänsel and Gretel, bearing great resemblance to myself." Sherlock swallowed. "I made sure you were safe and then I left the country to follow the footprints of Moriarty's criminal web to eliminate the most dangerous subsidiaries and, of course, hunt down your assassins. The last one was Sebastian Moran, and he almost got away because I _miscalculated_." He spit the word.

Blimey. That might explain why NSY had lost track of Moran since finding that lab.

"Afterwards, hospitals were out of the question- their security system and habit of handling confidential information is poor at best. I had no other choice but to try and make it home in the hopes of finding you here. The rest of the story you know better than I," he finished.

John closed his eyes for a short moment, just to get his wild thoughts into working order once more, to get some footing back in the face of all this madness. "You did this all by yourself? Taking out Moriarty's network?"

"Mostly, yes." Sherlock cleared his throat. "I had some help from Molly and Mycroft. And I called in a favour from Irene Adler before I lost track of her." He searched and held John's gaze, his eyes full of something John couldn't identify. "I hated the last twelve months and I detest that my _feelings_ forced me to do what I had to do," Sherlock snarled. "And yet I would do everything all over again without hesitation, because they wanted to _kill_ _you_."

Christ.

John had to concentrate on the knot in his intestines for just a moment longer. "... Okay," he then heard himself say slowly. "Alright. I see your reason for faking your death, I really do. And I appreciate it. But not telling me afterwards..." he looked down at his hands where they clasped each other in a death grip in his lap. When he looked back up again, his voice felt raw, silently furious, and far away. His eyes burned. "Do you have any idea about what you did to me, what you did to all of your mourning friends? I went back to fucking war because I couldn't stand-"

But Sherlock wouldn't let him finish- "You- _what_?" he nearly shouted the question back at him, coughing under the strain on his wounds and lungs, likely causing a new wave of pain. "How did you get back to Afghanistan? Why didn't I know that?"

"Syria. I was deployed near Homs for this tour," John explained calmly. "And the plan had actually been to stay there, to be honest. Mycroft only ordered me back because of Moran."

"He shouldn't have let you go in the first place!"

John wondered if Sherlock really was as shocked as he seemed to be that this detail had escaped his notice.

"He was the one to send me there, Sherlock."

Sherlock halted at that, focussing on John. And he saw the moment when the detective deduced what John couldn't talk about. What he tried to bury deep inside the back of his mind- especially now that there was light and life again in his world. John closed his eyes, but he knew that Sherlock had seen it. The loneliness. The nightmares. The fear of his last strength finally leaving him for good. The fight in him wearing thin. More and more sideward glances towards his Browning, lying there in his bedside drawer. Tempting. Waiting.

When Sherlock spoke again, his voice was almost shaking, uncharacteristically needing confirmation about his deduction for once, "What… would you have done… if he hadn't?"

John was probably a lot of things, but a coward was definitely not amongst them. So he looked Sherlock directly in the eyes as he opened the lid on one of his well hidden and locked boxes inside. Pain threatening to bubble over. "... I'm not going to do this shit out there without at least knowing that you're around _some_where," he said, barely surprised at how deep and sure his voice sounded at this moment. "I tried. Let's just say it didn't work out really well." John saw Sherlock's fists clench in the bedding at his side while his face was forced underneath an unconvincing mask of indifference.

John dropped his voice further, now hardly more than a dangerous breathing. "So if you ever decide to do something like this again, you better take me with you or send me to hell, because otherwise I'll follow you anyway- and that is to where I _think_ you are, you got me? Direction be damned."

Sherlock gritted his teeth at that. "You are not allowed to harm yourself! The whole point in this was to keep you _safe_!"

"You know what?" John furrowed his brows in anger. "For the better part of the last year I would have preferred that sniper rifle's bullet in the first place. If you don't include me in your decisions, then you have to live with the fact that I don't include you in mine. And I can't fucking guess the running-a-mile-process your damn genius is taking you through. Leaving me alone in this without making sure I got on the same track at some point along the ride was as risky as letting them point a laser at my head."

John took in a long breath and let it go at once, getting himself back under control. "If we want to make this work again- you and me- then we have to be able to trust each other. You have to find a way to keep me updated on the important bits. Even if you think I don't need to know them- I do. If it has the potential to change both our lives, then you have to tell me," he said in honest conviction. "Otherwise we're not a team. Then we're just two blokes sharing some random living space."

"I... John, I-" Sherlock stopped himself, seemingly not knowing what to say for once.

"I'm a man of action, Sherlock," John tried to explain. "You know that better than anyone. Hell, you know _me_ better than anyone. How could you think I'd go on with life as usual? That I would just sit and wait and do the shopping while thinking that my best friend had jumped off a freaking roof?"

"Not trying to safe you simply wasn't an option. It was _vital_," Sherlock urged. "Therefore I will never be sorry for what I did. But ...I apologise… for what my actions did to you, and that there wasn't a possibility to explain everything to you beforehand. It was by far not an easy decision to make."

John held his gaze as he heard the sincerity of those words. "... Okay. Okay," he swallowed. "So... even though I definitely would have preferred to go with you in the first place, I..." he sighed and looked up, searching his friend's tired eyes. "Thank you, Sherlock."

At that, Sherlock looked surprised. "For what?"

"For telling me now. For saving me. For realising that there is, in fact, something to be sorry for and apologising for it. I know that's hell for you and your massive ego."

"Quite," Sherlock agreed in a tentative tone, biting his lip. "Too bad, though..."

"What is?"

"Originally, I wanted to surprise you. Who knows...? I could have jumped out of a cake."

John nodded, "I probably would have punched you."

Sherlock grinned. Then he looked up again from where his eyes had absently scanned the room for about the fifth time in a row. "... John?"

"Hm?"

"Am I allowed to stay, then?"

"Yes, you jerk." John smiled in exhaustion and honest relief. "Besides, where else would you go with that hole in your side?"

XXX


	17. Chapter 17

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**Part 3 - Chapter 2**

.

**Date: October 22****nd****, 2013. 0714 hours.**

**Position: 221 Baker Street (51° 31′ 24″ N, 0° 9′ 30″ W ) , City of Westminster, London, England.**

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In the following weeks, while Sherlock's body slowly healed its wounds, John had his work cut out with trying to get his patient back to a healthier weight and keeping his restless brain entertained with files of cold cases Greg brought to the flat. Soon 221B was drowning in a sea of paper folders, crime scene photos and autopsy reports and John had to pick his way towards his armchair around towers of stacked evidence bags.

In the meantime, they made slow but steady progress in re-adjusting their lives inside each other's orbits, working on finding their old pace again. But John quickly realised that some things had irrevocably shifted.

Sherlock never really talked about what exactly had happened on his hunt after Moriarty's men, but even though the fever was fought down the day after their conversation, the nightmares kept coming back.

At first, John tried to give Sherlock some more privacy after the enforced closeness while John was treating the injury and the following illness. So when Sherlock was fit enough to migrate from Mrs Hudson's flat to his old bedroom, John moved to the second floor and slept there. Or, well, tried to.

It took eight nights in a row- four of which some heart stopping screams from downstairs jolted John out of his own nightmares. Interspersed with three sleepless nights of clutching steaming mugs in pairs of equally trembling hands and talking about everything and nothing for hours on end to calm their restless minds. And finally one night when he woke to find Sherlock stretched out on the hard floor next to John's bed, shaking but deeply asleep- to throw the rest of his stubbornness and doctor's moral compass to hell and crawl under the covers in Sherlock's room from the ninth night on.

This way, they finally got a chance at some decent sleep and John's heart rate slowed down to a healthier pace once more whenever he closed his eyes to try and rest.

There were now moments, though, when Sherlock was gripped by some memory or another so suddenly and sometimes with such brutal force- either freezing him in place for minutes and staring into space, or sending him tumbling to his knees, holding his head and almost ripping his hair out in quiet distress- that John was ready to consult with Louise Mortimer and even Ella by the end of the month. But Sherlock refused to take any medication that didn't originate in John's own prescription pad (because, "Really, John? _Therapists_?") and other than that the only advice he got was the same John had received after Afghanistan: Talk about it, get it out of your system and concentrate on the here and now. Well. That hadn't helped John and, at least in this, Sherlock proved to be wired like him.

And so John was forced to sit passively through Sherlock's attacks, steadfastly refusing to let him go through this alone, while the genius detective slowly managed to dig his way up to the surface of his mind's turmoil on his own, reaching further with each overcome attack. John felt more helpless than he'd been even in the midst of desert ruins and the bloodied bodies of too many children and women when supplies had kept running out.

Other things weren't linked to memories. Those things Sherlock tried to fight as well, but lost. Those things were settled deeper. They prompted John to spend an inordinate amount of time punching the walls of his room when he was alone.

The first time John made Sherlock a cup of tea after The Return, it was like witnessing the formation of an abyss. After taking the first tentative sip of the milky brew, John heard Sherlock swallow hard behind him and when he turned, a question already on his lips, he instantly knew his own tea would grow cold as he sat down next to his friend. For the next 15 minutes John held the detective's hand in a tight grip and offered silent comfort while Sherlock wept.

The first time Sherlock reclaimed his violin he continued to play for hours until his fingers cramped.

Whenever John now would get his Browning out to clean it, dissembling its pieces, and oiling trigger and slide, Sherlock would stop whatever he was doing at the moment, wordlessly went to lock both doors to the flat and then waited by the windows, keeping an eye out on the street until John had put the weapon back together, one bullet in the chamber.

When John left to get some basics from the shops while Sherlock was still asleep one early morning, he came back to find Sherlock bend over the toilet, heaving forcefully, gripping the porcelain with white knuckled, trembling hands- clutching John's hastily written note between his fingers.

From then on, they had a silent agreement to not leave the other's side without them being awake and aware.

It was around Halloween and approximately 58 solved cold cases later that Sherlock was finally able to move freely and without pain again- and John had never been happier to declare one of his patients cured and fit to run after criminals once more. Mrs Hudson and their walls agreed.

Once properly restored, the homeless network (and Mycroft) were able to collect enough circumstantial evidence to have solid case of Sherlock's innocence. S_omehow_ the information 'got leaked' to the press on the same day the file was sent to the Yard and dozens of people who had been actively supporting the 'We believe in Sherlock Holmes' campaigns simultaneously received the same text message: 'Sherlock lives.' The only thing John really wondered about in all of this was Sherlock's almost childlike amusement when he set the timer for his news-bomb.

"Jesus, Sherlock. You could at least have let me finished my tea," John huffed the next day as he hurried after Sherlock, who was already standing next to the waiting cab, holding the door open for him.

Sherlock rolled his eyes, once again the burning impatience that he was meant to be. "I'll make you a new cup when we get home- Now, John! There's no point sitting around anymore. We've got a murder to solve!"

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The crime scene was a multi-storey apartment building only a few minutes' drive away and surrounded by blue and white tape, police cars and officers. A few bystanders had gathered and stood near the house's entrance in the hopes of getting a better look. John shook his head in disbelief when he saw that even a pair of reporters and a camera had found their way to the scene already.

He and Sherlock carefully pushed through the bustling crowd. Apparently already deep in thought, assessing the surroundings leading up to the crime scene, Sherlock ducked underneath the tape and then paused to hold it up for John to follow. They hadn't made it inside yet, though, when someone jogged over to them.

John was surprised to see the young Lance Corporal who'd been one of the kidnapped and escaped victims of Moran. "John!"

He smiled, giving her a quick hug. "Millie? What are you doing here?" They had met and chatted about their time abroad a few times before Sherlock's Return, but she had never made any attempts at changing their camaraderie into something more and John was grateful for that. They'd spoken over the phone once or twice over the last months, but hadn't seen each other since.

"Oh, I live here, actually."

"What, are you alright?" John asked, instinctively letting his eyes check her over for any signs of injury.

"Yeah, I'm fine. It's my landlord, you know. The victim they found. They told me to stay outside during the investigation." She hugged herself, rubbing her hands up and down her arms to warm up in the piercing cold of the early day.

"Christ, I'm sorry to hear that," John said, shedding his jacket and handing it to her.

Millie smiled apologetically and quickly slipped her arms into the sleeves. "Thanks. But I didn't know the guy all that well. He was the quiet type, you know? Minding his own business, barely greeting his tenants in passing." She turned to look at where Sherlock had briskly walked over to the first best officer he saw (most likely demanding to speak to Greg) as soon as Millie had appeared. "It's him, isn't it? Sherlock Holmes. I saw the newspaper headlines on my way to the meeting. You're here to take the case?"

John chuckled softly and shrugged. "Yeah, it's him. But I wouldn't know about the plans for today- if the case is interesting enough, then I'm sure we'll be around for a bit. Otherwise I'll have the day off to endure his boredom as he shoots the walls at home." He nodded to the man in question, who rolled his eyes but came over to them anyway.

"Sherlock, this is Millie Lebark," John said as Sherlock reached them, raising his eyebrows impatiently.

"Glad to meet you, Mr Holmes. You've been some kind of a myth in our line of work for quite some time now."

To John's surprise, Sherlock took the hand that was offered to him. "Military. Interesting. You most likely heard about John on one of your times in an active warzone, getting curious, but didn't meet him in person until here in London. You bonded over the shared background but you fell in love with another man recently..." he furrowed his brows, "no- woman," he corrected. "Going by the nametag on your jumper and the fact that you were asked to stay outside of the building but made it past the police tape it's obvious that you live here but weren't at home when the police arrived. Going out at this early hour on a Saturday and taking the tag into account you were likely coming back from some form of meeting, possibly group therapy. You think it's helpful and not a lost cause as you didn't remember to pull the nametag off as soon as you left the session. You have lipstick in the corner of your mouth but not your own- different colour. You were there with your girlfriend, then. Military, therapy, girlfriend- you are one of the two female victims who managed to escape Sebastian Moran last June."

John felt a ridiculous amount of pride swell in his chest. God, how he'd missed seeing Sherlock immersing in his deductions at a crime scene. It was like watching the sun rise and staring right at it.

Millie seemed to at least partially share his thoughts as she looked completely stunned. "Holly shit, are you real?"

Sherlock puffed his breath in half-hearted exasperation and then turned to John. "Lestrade is on his way to get us inside. He promised me a seven, but it's more likely he only wanted me to get out of his hair."

"Yes. _Most_ likely. You texted him at least twice a day over the last month, threatening him with all kinds of blackmail just to get a new case. I would have kicked your sorry arse and taken away the cold cases from you on top of it, you know," John grinned.

"No," Sherlock grinned back. "You wouldn't have let me suffer like this in the first place, because you know how it gets."

John winced in agreement. Some days, he had to force himself to stop thinking about all those months when Sherlock had been confronted with his Danger Nights on his own. Sherlock had promised that he hadn't relapsed on anything more than cigarettes and John had to take his word for it because otherwise the worry for the Sherlock of the past would simply drive him round the bend after everything that happened.

"Sherlock, John!" Greg called over to them, jogging the few metres from the building to where they were still standing outside. "Great you could make it."

John smiled in greeting and Sherlock scoffed. "Where are we?" he asked impatiently.

"On the roof. Victim's been there for at least a few weeks, though. Hope you haven't eaten yet," Greg answered calmly, used to Sherlock's behaviour when on a case by now.

Sherlock's eyes lit up in interest just as Millie held a hand in front of her mouth. "God, how come no one noticed anything?" she asked.

Greg smiled in apology. "Sorry, Ms Lebark. I'm afraid I can't speak about ongoing investigations at this point."

"Oh, of course. I'm sorry, Sir." She turned to John, "Well, then I'll probably just go and hunt down somewhere warm until you're done. Would it be okay if I keep the jacket for a bit longer?"

John nodded. "Definitely. Take care, Millie."

They turned and started to make their way into the building and up the stairs to the rooftop above the fourth floor.

The crime scene was an ordinary flat roof, which was despite the recent frost still muddy from old leaves and rain puddles. Floodlights had been arranged in one corner around the putrid remains of a person lying on the concrete floor. On the opposite side the forensic team had built a temporary operation base with folding tables under a marquee. To John's great relief Anderson wasn't amongst them- he wasn't very keen on finding out if Greg would arrest him for punching the git.

Sherlock strode directly over to the corpse, his Belstaff billowing behind him, giving him the kind of appearance of pure confidence only someone who knew exactly where they belonged and what they were capable of doing to their surroundings could exude. As he crouched down beside the body, John and Greg stayed back as usual, watching Sherlock's silent and quick process of analysing the evidence.

"Hey," John said quietly to the man next to him, "thanks for calling him about this. He really appreciates it, even if he'd probably strangle me for saying so."

Greg smiled knowingly. "Yeah, well. Mrs Hudson had me bribed with scones."

John chuckled. "Yes, I'd definitely do a lot for those scones, too."

"God, that lady does know her baking," Greg agreed mock-serious. Quickly, he sobered up, though. "Listen, everything alright with you two?" he asked, watching Sherlock carefully poking the rotten flesh of the victim's hands with a pen.

"Sure," John answered, feeling his eyebrows rise in wonder. "Why are you asking?"

Greg seemed a bit uncomfortable. "Oh, just... you know."

John shook his head slowly from side to side.

"Well ... you two always stuck together as if you were joined at the hip, really. It's just that since he's back... I don't know. It's as if there'd been a shift in your dynamic, like you're psychologically wired together now. Look, if you two were suspects in one of my cases I'd think you either had a few bodies buried underneath your carpet or went through being kidnapped and tortured together."

"Yeah," John said, feeling his face scrunching up in remembered hurt, "I see what you mean. We're still working on that."

Greg's gaze turned scrutinising. "Would you be able to leave without him now and, what, visit your sister in Essex or even just drive back home?"

John sighed, looking back to Sherlock. "I honestly have no idea." Answer would probably be 'no', though, if he'd had the strength to analyse the emotional chaos inside him.

Greg nodded in understanding.

"John!" Sherlock called from where he was inspecting the edge of the roof with his pocket magnifying glass. He got his phone out and typed something quickly.

John smiled apologetically at Greg and made his way over to Sherlock, the Inspector slowly trailing behind.

Upon coming closer, John saw Sherlock standing up from his position on the floor and then he... swayed. Just slightly and only for half a moment, the weakness instantly pushed back behind the mask, but definitely there. John quickened his pace, crossing the last few steps of distance between them with purpose. When he reached him, Sherlock swayed again as he attempted to turn towards John, closing his eyes at some obvious distress inside his skull.

John took Sherlock's elbow, steadying him. "What is it? Are you feeling dizzy?" he asked in a muted volume.

Sherlock made some kind of frustrated growl in the back of his throat but leaned slightly into John nevertheless as he pressed his eyes shut once more, his brow furrowed in concentration.

"Okay, come here." John carefully stepped directly in front of him, lifting Sherlock's chin a bit with his fingers. "Open your eyes for me?"

When Sherlock did, he blinked a few times while John grabbed the small torch from inside Sherlock's pocket and shined its light into his eyes, testing the pupil's reaction. Their movement seemed a bit slow, but not by much. "Any double vision?"

"No. I'm fine, John," Sherlock sighed. When John raised an eyebrow at him he conceded, "... Headache."

John remembered the careful movements Sherlock had tried to hide ever since waking up today. "You've felt the beginnings of this since this morning, haven't you."

Sherlock waved his hand. "It was just a dull throb. Nothing. This feels..."

"-Piercing?" John offered.

Sherlock nodded.

"Your body is still busy adjusting, unbalanced. You didn't have much exercise in the aftermath of the surgery. And you're probably dehydrated- Was that tea yesterday evening the last you drank?"

Sherlock's eyes fixed on something above John's shoulder. "Maybe."

John shook his head and handed Sherlock a paracetamol and his water bottle. He had tried to argue with Sherlock that he should take things a bit slow at the beginning, but this was Sherlock- he never did things _slow_. "Here. Small sips," he said as Sherlock took the medicine without even asking what it was.

Having witnessed Sherlock almost bleeding out only a few months prior, Greg seemed worried as he stood next to them. "What's up? He okay?"

Sherlock somehow managed to scowl at him while drinking his water. "_'He'_ is standing right here, Inspector."

John smiled in fond exasperation. "He's fine- just stubborn."

Apparently deciding that the remains of the headache could be ignored again, Sherlock pointedly stared at the corpse as he carefully knelt down once more. "Have a look at the body; tell me what you see," Sherlock said without looking up.

John nodded and crouched next to him, putting on plastic gloves as he did. The body had apparently been covered by some kind of sheet. "Male, according to his pelvis and what is left of the clothes," he began. "It's been pretty cold lately, definitely below 8°C, so I'd say he's dead for about two or three weeks, but I'm no coroner. His skull shows signs of heavy beating shortly before dying, fracturing the bone- Might be the cause of death."

Sherlock held his hands before his chin as if in prayer. "What about his clothes?"

John leaned down again, searching through the remains of what looked like a woollen jumper and jeans accompanied by... "Slippers? Who wouldn't wear a jacket but slippers outside at this time of year?" he asked, surprised.

"Exactly," Sherlock grinned.

"Sherlock, I could use anything you got," Greg urged.

Sherlock rose, hands in his pockets. "It's obvious he's the landlord of this building, going by some of the still recognisable facial features and this plastic card from a laundrette just around the corner inside his breast pocket with his name on it. He'd been doing the janitor work for the house by himself- I'm sure you'll agree with me when you analyse the toolbox behind that door to the roof. But he wasn't up here to do some repair work as he's not clothed according to the weather of late and therefore didn't expect to stay outside for long. His head was bashed in from behind with a heavy dull object when he was coming up to inspect something that caught his attention from down on the street."

"And how do you know that?" Greg asked, incredulous.

Sherlock pointed at a spot on the rooftop's edge. "He interrupted someone who wasn't supposed to be here."

When John stepped closer he could see two parallel, equally formed spots in the frozen mud. Blimey. "Sniper rifle."

Sherlock nodded grimly.

"_What_?" Greg asked, sounding baffled. "You sure?"

"Yes." John's stomach twisted. "Far more so than I'd prefer to be, actually." God, he hoped this was not what he thought it was.

"But what could you possibly target from here? There's nothing special around this area," Greg argued.

"They could have targeted a civilian?" John guessed. "Hired assassin?"

At that moment, Greg's phone chimed. "Yeah. ... What? Who?" He looked over at Sherlock who was grinning at him wickedly. "Okay, yes. For God's sake, just send'em up."

Only a minute later a small figure appeared on the rooftop with a black sports bag in their hands. John was startled to recognise Gregor, his on-and-off permanent patient of the homeless network. The kid smiled over at them and handed the bag to John who took it, wondering what the hell Sherlock was plotting now. "Hey, Doc. Guess this is probably for ya."

John looked at Sherlock who only smiled and nodded, so he set the bag down and pulled the zipper to open it- "Jesus, Sherlock. What now?"

There lay a dissembled SA80 inside the bag staring up at John.

"Ah, Christ!" Greg exclaimed.

Shit, when Sherlock had told him that Moran had been taken care of, he'd never thought that he'd kept and hid his freaking rifle.

"Don't worry, Inspector. Even though there's only a very slight chance for finger prints or DNA on this, I never touched it. I merely stored it away for safekeeping."

"How is this helping us now, Sherlock?" Greg had his thumb and forefinger pressed together at the base of his nose.

"We need to know what the sharp shooter was targeting." Sherlock had his best you're-a-real-idiot-but-I-indulge-you-anyway look on.

"There are experts on that on the force. I could have just called them in."

"No, that would take ages. John is far quicker and most likely more accurate. In addition, I won't have to verify his findings."

What? "No, Sherlock, listen. I can't just go pointing sniper rifles' barrels into the streets of London. I have no jurisdiction here whatsoever- I'm not even in active duty anymore," John tried to reason.

"You know, I'd definitely agree with him on that," added Greg. "I shouldn't even be seeing this thing there."

"Oh, please," Sherlock sneered. "John knows perfectly well what he is doing and you can remove the ammunition before letting him line up a _theoretical _shot."

"Nothing against you, John, but there could be hundreds of windows seen from here- how could we even know which one they were targeting for real- if they hadn't been waiting for someone passing by on the street?" Greg spread his arms in agitation.

Well... "Um, to tell the truth, the chance won't probably be so bad at all," John said quietly.

Sherlock looked as if someone had just proven his point and Greg only stared at John in utter disbelief.

John sighed, surrendering to Sherlock's newest madness. "There are at least two dozen different factors you have to consider when lining up a long distance shot that's supposed to hit a moving target. Even more in an area with many civilians."

"Well, fuck this. Okay. God help me... Just- just do whatever you have to." Greg let out a frustrated moan and ordered his team on the rooftop as well as down on the street to keep calm despite whatever they were going to see in the next couple of minutes.

John took a deep breath, crouching back down next to the open bag and started assembling the SA80 with quick, practised moves. He hadn't worked with this particular model in years but the basics of army rifles kept being pretty much the same. It only took a few moments until the rifle was ready for duty once more and he handed the ammo clip to Greg.

The edge of the rooftop was extremely narrow, so John could position the rack exactly in the same spot as the marks in the mud Sherlock had found- the fact that they matched correct to the millimetre made him swallow down a lump in his throat. "Sherlock."

"Yes," came the soft baritone from nearby, "I see it."

John closed his eyes and concentrated his thoughts on the task at hand. When he opened them again, he was back to being a soldier with a mission and a sniper's optical sight in front of him.

Everything else faded into background static, only filtered by his subconscious for possible enemy activity behind his back. His heart rate slowed down almost automatically in order to let him shoot in between two breaths. He lay on his stomach, legs slightly splayed and his toes angled to support the oncoming recoil when he fired the weapon. He pushed himself up on his elbows and lowered his head to look through the optical sight, making a few adjustments to the focus, considering wind speed, current weather conditions, light- "Could you turn the floodlights off?"

"Ah, sure."

There were quite a few windows up and down the street- mostly flats inside the many multi-storey buildings, some shops and restaurants, and three houses down south was the laundrette Sherlock had mentioned earlier. But there was no perfect shot from exactly this position. Even if he'd ignore the current wind and weather there were only two windows that could be targeted properly (though, through one of them the bullet would hit a poster from the 80's and the other a modern telly- hardly often frequented spots inside those flats). Other than that there also was the main entrance of a video game shop...

"Anything?" Greg's voice pierced through John's concentration, spiking his heart rate up for a second.

"Shut up," Sherlock snarled.

John adjusted the optical sight once more, letting it drift over the rows of houses across the street. The rifle had been positioned straight at the edge, most likely pointing directly ahead. But if John did just that, simply positioning the rifle in those exact angles there was only brick wall in his sight... only, wait-

Freaking shit.

There was a narrow space between the two buildings opposite, leading into a small alley. John adjusted once more, following the pathway through the optical sight. The alley opened up to another street behind the row of houses and across from that was a second alley, the angle of the building next to that second alley leaving only a very small space open for a clear view from the rooftop they were currently on. And behind that second alley was yet another street. John let the sight drift upwards slowly, across that third street, up the building he could now see at the end of the tunnel, across a red marquise.

And directly into their living room window.

There was only a slight hitch to his breathing at that discovery, but for the man at his side it was apparently all he needed to draw his own conclusions.

"You found it," Sherlock stated.

"You said he's no longer a threat, Sherlock." How was this even possible? There had been no sign of Moran since Sherlock's Return that night in June when John had found him bleeding in their landlady's kitchen- bleeding from a fight with said Colonel.

John stood, brushing frozen crumbs of dirt from his jeans and jumper.

Sherlock began to pace, agitation in every step he took. "No, no, no. That doesn't make any _sense_. I had his bag; he would have left his weapon of choice behind if he'd been still... He was bleeding, there was no pulse, I pushed him into the Thames," he mumbled deep in thought, likely backtracking his actions in that night once again.

"Oh, God. I am not hearing any of this," Greg exclaimed.

"Did you have Mycroft search for him?" John crossed his arms in front of his chest, trying his best to stay rational, bracing himself for the ridiculous task of figuring out where Sherlock Holmes could have gone wrong.

"Yes, his body was stuck inside one of the wastewater pipes downstream. They only found him four weeks after the incident, it wasn't much left of him, but the dental records confirmed it."

"So maybe this wasn't him? He could have had trainees, handlers, that sort of thing," John tried. It was a straw he was clutching at and he knew it. But the fact was that there hadn't been any attacks since June, no kidnappings that fit the victims' profiles, and no news whatsoever on Moran.

"So you're saying that guy might still be somewhere out there, targeting you two and trying to end what he started?" Greg questioned in calm horror.

Sherlock shook his head abruptly, emerging from his Mind Palace. "Possible, but not likely. If he survived then it's most probable that he left to another active warzone once more."

"So what now?" John asked.

Sherlock shrugged, visibly disappointed. "We wait."

.

A few weeks later, when John was just in the middle of making his way out of Sherlock's-slash-their bedroom and straight over to the tea kettle to chase away the cold and the sleep still settled deep inside his bones- he stopped dead in his tracks as there was the British Government seated in one of the kitchen chairs.

"Good morning, John."

Mycroft made a show of eyeing the pyjama bottoms and the ratty t-shirt John was wearing. He went as far as raising his eyebrows in obvious disapproval of John's state of clothing in order to make sure even someone like him would get the meaning. - Which, in itself, was enough of an insult to dump the rest of John's good mood into the bin right then and there.

He decided that it would probably be better for everyone involved if he just ignored Sherlock's brother for now and stuck to the tea plan. He was not even halfway through filling the kettle, though, when a sleep roughened baritone came from the small hallway leading to the bedroom. "What are you doing here, Mycroft?" Sherlock asked in his best would-you-please-go-and-unnerve-someone-else-voice.

"At the moment, I'm trying my best to overlook your new sleeping arrangements, brother."

John turned to get two mugs out of the cupboard to his left- and saw that Sherlock was apparently back to wearing only the basics. In this case: The sheet. John sighed and shook his head with a small smile on his lips. This was probably not the best way to set the records of their ever misinterpreted relationship status straight, but he knew that Sherlock had missed agitating his brother more than he would admit. And John would definitely stay out of the Holmeses' family duels if he could help it, thank you very much.

"That's hardly any of your business, _brother_," Sherlock sneered back, throwing himself in an elegant sulking fashion that shouldn't even be physically possible into a chair opposite Mycroft.

"I beg to differ," came Mycroft's calmly arrogant answer.

"You really wouldn't." Sherlock didn't even break his death glare towards Mycroft when John handed him his tea and then stood next to Sherlock's chair, holding his own mug in the left hand, while absentmindedly settling his right on the chair's back. It was way too early for being polite and sitting down would mean an upgrade of the intruder in front of him to a visitor. And even if he knew body language manipulation was a lost cause with the Holmes', by God, he was too stubborn to make it any easier for the posh git.

Sherlock's shoulders, though, seemed to relax just that tiny bit as he realised that John planned to stay exactly where he was. He immediately covered it up with a new scowl. "What about Anthea, Mycroft? She's still thinking about Wladimir's offer?"

Mycroft's face made an ugly twist at that question and John cleared his throat. "Why don't you just tell us why you're here, Mycroft? That could speed things up a bit."

Mycroft's eyes drifted over to John for a second before settling back on his brother. "Mummy asked me to invite you to Christmas dinner."

Sherlock waved an impatient hand at his brother. "I'm not going. It's a wonder she keeps trying to drag me back to that place year after year with the same result."

John looked at his friend, furrowing his brows. "Are you saying that you haven't seen your mother in years?"

"Yes." The tone of voice was now a mix between boredom with the subject and surprise at John's question.

"You were working undercover for twelve months, Sherlock," Mycroft said, his voice on the verge of calm threat. "Mummy will not be getting any younger and she misses you. You could at least spare a few hours."

"You know perfectly well that it's too far to walk and once I'm there you and she will send orders out to the whole staff to not let me get into one of the cars any time soon. I would be imprisoned for twenty-four hours at least."

"For goodness' sake, our family's home is hardly a prison. One day will not hurt you, Sherlock."

"Might as well." Sherlock rolled his eyes as if in sarcasm but John sensed the muscles in Sherlock's neck tensing up again, saw the hand around his mug tighten. John could definitely sympathise with the uneasy feeling.

It would be the first time they were apart for more than a few hours since The Return.

"When you ordered me back and brought me to Bart's you said you'd show me the manor some time," John casually stated, fixing Mycroft with a stare.

Mycroft apparently allowed himself the luxury of surprise showing on his features for half a second before he schooled them back into nonchalance. "Indeed."

Sherlock whirled around at that, nearly knocking John's hand away in the process. "_What_?"

"John, in that case: Would you like to accompany us to the family dinner this year?" Mycroft interrupted smoothly.

John ignored Mycroft and searched Sherlock's face instead, trying to figure out if he would be welcome or just an additional burden and stress factor. Even after his Return, Sherlock never really shared anything personal from his childhood or adolescence. If the reason for that was that he didn't want anyone to know, then for John to invite himself to the Christmas party would cause more problems than it solved, really.

Sherlock frowned while he analysed John's expression, searching for clues, gathering data. His gaze suddenly cleared when he seemed to have come to a conclusion.

John raised his brows in query.

Sherlock nodded. Then he turned back to his brother, "Renew my ID on unlimited access at St. Bart's and NSY."

"I will arrange for _one_, Sherlock. It's just a visit at home."

"Bart's, then," Sherlock shrugged as if he hadn't expected a full score in the first place. "And we'll leave whenever we want to."

Mycroft sniffed. "Not before the ball has come to an end."

"We'll sit through dinner," Sherlock bargained.

Finally, Mycroft sighed in mock exhaustion and stood. "Very well. I'll send a car at 2 o'clock in the afternoon on Christmas Eve. Be ready."

"Hm." Sherlock went back to basically ignoring his sibling while he fished for the newspaper on the table.

John suppressed a smile as it was clear that no other answer was forthcoming. He looked up at Mycroft, who was already standing by the door. "We will. Thank you."

XXX


	18. Chapter 18

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**Part 3 – Chapter 3**

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**Date: December 24****th****, 2013. 1608 hours.**

**Position: Outside of **_**Holmes Manor**_**, Pensford (51° 22′ 15.6″ N, 2° 32′ 47.76″ W****)****, Somerset, England.**

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The two and a half hour-drive from Baker Street to Holmes Manor on the outskirts of Bristol passed surprisingly smooth and uncomplicated. Mycroft had sent one of his unobtrusive, sleek cars in the early afternoon, which only had to wait for them for about 15 minutes until Sherlock could finally be bribed into getting dressed in more than his pyjamas and nightgown. John threw their bags into the boot, while Sherlock held the car door open- and off they went. Apparently, Mycroft had taken another car directly after office hours the day prior, so they were travelling alone- much to John's relief, because over two hours of childish bickering surely would have tested even his nerves. This way, though, Sherlock amused them both with deducing the people and special places they passed by on their journey.

They had just driven through Bristol when the chauffeur announced there was only another 20 minutes until arrival- and John began to feel a long forgotten suspicion creeping up his spine. This area seemed extremely familiar to him, and not because of some recent travelling for a case- no, this felt childhood-home-familiar. Like a distant memory. But he'd grown up way north in Hull, where his parents had retired after their time in London. He had an aunt living in Somerset, though, so maybe...

John looked over to where Sherlock was sitting quietly for now, staring moodily out of the window. When John kept looking at his friend, deep in thought, Sherlock turned and raised an inquiring, elegant eyebrow.

John shook himself and shrugged. _'It's nothing.'_

Both eyebrows went up, a little tilt of the head. _'Sure?'_

John took a deep breath through his nose, wondering if he should tell Sherlock about this nagging doubt in the back of his head. But in the end, he just let go of the breath at once and nodded.

Sherlock's forehead furrowed, his eyes flicking back and forth over John's face, deducing.

John drew his eyebrows together. _'Stop that.'_

Sherlock watched him for a moment longer, than shrugged and turned back to stare out of the window. John stifled a worried sigh and resumed his former occupation of watching the cosy town of Pensford with its narrow streets and far to be seen viaduct coming closer.

It was fine, until they drove through the softly rolling hills of the countryside surrounding the ancient settlement and finally turned into the snowy pathway up to the manor. They soon passed by dozens of well kept hedgerows and cherry trees, coated in small hats of white.

John's insides felt like freefalling as the past came rushing back at him with full force.

Hundreds of short scenes in the gardens of the property, decades ago, chased each other in his mind. "Oh, _God_..." he groaned, suddenly feeling numb.

Sherlock turned to him. "What is it?" Now, there definitely was a slight worry detectable in his voice.

"_This_ is your house? Where you grew up?" John asked, his words sounding far away to his own ears.

Sherlock looked puzzled. "Yes? Well, for now it's still Mummy's, of course, but since Mycroft inherits the property in France, I guess it's fair enough. I have no use for it whatsoever anyway, so..." he trailed off, watching John closely. "What is wrong with you?"

The car came to a halt in front of the imposing main entrance. John barely registered the driver getting out, retrieving their luggage. When Sherlock opened John's door from the outside, sending him another scrutinising look and startling him out of his reverie again, John knew he only had a few precious seconds to compose himself and deal with this inner hurricane later, in private.

He took a deep breath, locking away thoughts and feelings as if going into battle, and then stepped out to join his friend in the walk up the familiar stairs to the entry.

When the lady of the house herself opened the big wooden doors to greet them, it was like stepping into a different time. She was wearing the same colours and clothing style as back then- a long, elegant, dark red skirt, a crème blouse and silken scarf. In John's memory, though, that last item had always been green- now it was black, probably in remembrance of Sherlock's late father. Her hair, once dark brown and curly, was now almost straight and silver, artfully held up in a French pleat. Her friendly features were soft around the welcoming eyes as she waited for Sherlock to step over the threshold to pull her youngest into an embrace.

John stayed in the background, waiting patiently for the inevitable introduction.

When she finally released her son she touched Sherlock's cheek lovingly, holding his gaze. "It is good to see you, darling. You realise how much you made me worry with that little stunt of yours, don't you?"

Sherlock's eyes were almost tender when he answered his mother. "You know it was necessary, Mummy. I hardly had a choice."

She tsked at him, but smiled warmly nevertheless. "I know, love."

He bowed his head just slightly. "I'm sorry."

John felt himself smile at the scene playing out before him. He knew Sherlock could be almost sweet with Mrs Hudson who he felt a deep regard for and treated like a grandmother. But seeing the detective like this, back in his childhood home and in the arms of his loving, worried mother- only six months ago, John would have given his everything to see his friend this much at peace with his surroundings.

"You're forgiven," Mrs Holmes said. Too late John realised she had been watching him over Sherlock's shoulder. "I know your reason."

At that Sherlock's head snapped up, scanning his mother's face. But she just stepped to the side and smiled at John where he still stood in the doorway. There was a minute change to her knowing gaze, though, when she took in his once more stoic expression.

"Sherlock," she said, "won't you introduce us?" and offered John her hand in greeting, which he took and held for a moment after shaking it.

Sherlock rolled his eyes but couldn't hide a small smile tucking at the corner of his mouth when he waved an impatient hand between them. "Doctor John Hamish Watson, former Captain of the Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers, meet my mother, Baroness Evangeline Violet Holmes."

"Pleasure to meet you, Baroness." Poker face revealing nothing. Or so he hoped.

"Please," she said, "call me Evangeline, won't you? My son just wanted to show you off, so he had to introduce me with my title as well- that dusty old thing sounds a bit too formal, don't you think?" She winked at him fake-conspiratorially.

John chuckled. "Agreed. Let's just stick to comfy first names, then. Fits better with the season, anyway."

"Now that's my kind of man!" she announced happily, linking arms with him and stirring him back towards the entrance. "Perfect company for my walk through the gardens. My sons are both utterly useless for that, sadly."

John laughed. "Can't imagine, why." When they were about to step outside again, he cast a glance over his shoulder and found Sherlock's eyes.

Sherlock nodded. "I'll be here."

John hadn't even realised he'd needed the reassurance, but now that he had it he had to confess that he felt calmer. He gave a short nod in return in their adopted routine over the last months, seeing Sherlock's shoulders relax for the split of a second for the unsaid _'I'll be back.'_

It would probably never be as carefree between them as it had been before Sherlock's absence, but they had made some progress at least. Their new fear of being apart from each other had already made them closer than they'd ever been. And John was determined to enjoy _that_ part of the problem as long as it lasted.

Outside of the manor it was like Father Christmas himself had decided to get rid of all the snow he'd left after this year's decorating simply by dumping the lot in northern Somerset. Their path led them past frozen rosebushes and white stone figurines, now barely recognisable under their temporary fluffy coating.

"It's good to see you again, Evangeline," John said quietly after they'd left the house's looming presence and began walking through aisles and aisles of sleeping roses and lavender.

"And you, John," she answered warmly. She seemed perfectly at ease with the situation, even though John highly doubted that the British Government had been aware of all this and could have prepared her beforehand. But then again, he knew almost nothing about this woman who had raised the two most intelligent and manipulating men of the country, if not of the whole continent and century as well. For all John knew it was perfectly possible that she was aware of more about this scenario than both her sons combined.

They walked silently for another few minutes, letting the cold breeze dance across their faces and through their hair, until Evangeline spoke again. "You didn't know, did you?" She looked over to him and then smiled apologetically. "No, how could you- You were still so young back then."

John shook his head, thinking back. "There were a few moments over the last couple of years when I wondered if it might be possible. Little things he said, certain movements or gestures," he answered, his mind miles away in the past. "But he never showed any signs of recognition himself. And I had nothing solid to go on, really. He never even told me his first name at the time, so I made up a nickname." He chuckled at that, seeing Sherlock's face in his mind when he'd first told him about his choice.

"I remember that," Evangeline smiled. "He was so proud about it. He came running to me that day, announcing that the landscaper's boy had given him the name of a magician."

Yes, there definitely had been one or two reasons for that particular name. "God, his mind was amazing, even back then. I could sit over there by the fountain, scrubbing gardening tools and listening to him for hours." He nodded over to the object in question, imagining it in the light of a different season, the late sun of a warm summer afternoon slowly setting over the hills, crickets singing in the dry fields, the smell of sun baked soil and fresh hay filling the air.

At his words, Evangeline looked regretful, following his gaze to the now frozen water of the fountain. "I'm sorry you had to work so much, John. The overall situation wasn't the best, surely."

John shrugged. His father had already been in financial trouble back then, starting to drive his mum into depression, and with his sister recently thrown out of the house for coming out, John was the only one left to try holding the household together. They had stayed at his aunt's cottage, but it could only have been a temporary solution. "It was a good summer, though."

"It was," she agreed. "I only wish it could have lasted longer. I had never seen my little boy so happy. Until now, that is."

John tried to ignore the hopeful note in her voice, not wanting to disappoint. "Yes, he seems more at ease lately," he said instead. Which was the truth. The nightmares were subsiding at last, Sherlock's body was almost at full strength once more, and the case rate was finally increasing now that the headlines about London's best- and sadly therefore still most famous- private detective had slipped back into the subconscious background again.

She nodded thoughtfully, deeply serious. "Mycroft told me what you did for Sherlock, when he came back- and even before that. What you were willing to sacrifice. You saved my son's life, John."

"He saves mine every day," he answered truthfully.

Evangeline watched him for a moment, her light green eyes jumping back and forth in an almost painfully familiar fashion. She seemed to consider her next words very closely until she spoke at last, her smile carefully measured. "That's not why you stay with him, though."

Ouch. Evangeline obviously had far more talent for deducing feelings and emotions than her sons. "I'm already caught, then, aren't I?" There were only two ways of dealing with this and John certainly had never been one for flight.

Evangeline read him like an open book when she caught his only half-honest chuckle. "Don't worry, dear. I'm his mother and therefore it is one of my most trained instincts to watch those around him very closely," she reassured him.

"I used to be more thorough in locking these feelings away- It just became quite a challenge since..." he hesitated, searching for a description which wouldn't leave him cringing inwardly, "since he came back home."

"I can imagine that."

"So what gave me away?" he asked, feeling that telltale mix of curiosity and worried apprehension. "I probably should get my guard up again," he added in explanation.

Evangeline focused on the snowy remains of an especially old rosebush. "It's the way you look at him," she said softly.

Surprised, he raised his eyebrows at her. "How do I look at him?"

"Well," she answered calmly, "first of all, you're one of the very few people I've met who will hold his gaze no matter the circumstances. You always did, even as a child. But moreover," she sighed dreamily, "... as if he is your life."

John stopped in his tracks, closing his eyes against the hurtful truth he'd always feared not being able to hide forever. Hearing the words spoken outside his own head felt like being pushed into ice water, like tripping over his own feet, and his first and most urgent instinct was to catch himself before he saw his carefully built up walls tumble to the ground for good, burying himself underneath the truth.

When he opened his eyes despite the roaring fire terrorising his insides, he saw Evangeline watching him with sad eyes. "Please allow an old mother this question, John," she began, her voice quiet and full of sympathy. "Why are you putting yourself through such hardship? You're not a shy person. And Sherlock isn't someone to turn the feelings of those close to him against them on purpose."

John swallowed, trying to get a grip on reality. "I know that he won't," he answered honestly. "But I can't."

She was silent for long minutes, standing there in the cold next to him, watching nearby resting wild geese. "What do you fear, dear Captain?"

John stared at the cold roses for what felt like ages while Sherlock's mother stood next to him, silently observing his search for the right words, patiently waiting for him to tell her about what he'd kept hidden deep inside. "Only half a year ago," he started, voice feeling scratchy in his throat, "I begged for another chance to at least see him one more time. To be able to tell him. Because he deserves to know… he should have known, before..." he coughed, then nodded shortly, trying to focus on the present. "But now he's back and I'm alive again and I have even more to lose than before his... fall. And I can't..." he closed his eyes once more.

"You can predict the outcome?"

"Sherlock doesn't do feelings, they're a chemical defect. His words, not mine," he smiled sadly. "He's not a kid anymore- he knows exactly how the world works and what he wants. He's a self proclaimed sociopath who's married to his work. His brain is what really counts to him and everything else is transport. A dull necessity for ordinary people like me." He shrugged. "He wouldn't want to hurt me, but he wouldn't be able to concentrate on his work either- The only thing that gives him a few moments of peace. I know that. And he trusts me. I'm close enough to see how it tears him apart from inside."

God, how he knew those times. When Sherlock's brilliant mind crumbled under its own onslaught. When nothing was enough anymore to keep his thoughts focused and occupied with puzzle after puzzle. When John couldn't do anything other than watch his friend suffer, thinking once more with utter horror about Sherlock's time away, when he'd been completely, frighteningly alone.

"So I'd rather keep my feelings at bay and stay his friend for as long as he needs me," he said, explaining the only way he could think of, "rather than take him down with me when I have to leave eventually." Because there would always be the danger- even for a 'conductor of light'- of becoming boring, too ordinary to stand having around. But John would be damned if he'd give up without his bloody best fight, should the day come. "He deserves this safety over everything else. A home. I won't take that from him- especially not for my own purposes."

Sherlock deserved to know that John would be there no matter what. And John would make sure of that, if nothing else.

"You are sacrificing yourself over a risk," Evangeline answered quietly.

"But a ridiculously high risk." John smiled. "I already got my miracle, Evangeline- twice, as it seems now. I certainly don't expect another."

"It's easy to see that you two need each other equally, though." She touched his arm where she was still linked to him and searched his gaze. "Please don't give up on him, John."

"I wouldn't-" he began when a text alert in his pocket startled him. "I'm sorry," he apologised while reaching for his phone.

'I cannot see why those rosebushes should be able to hold your interest for this long, really. S'

And almost immediately followed by a second one: 'I'm bored. And cold. Come back inside. If convenient.'

And then, 'If inconvenient, come anyway.'

Chuckling to himself, John shook his head and turned towards the backdoor of the manor where, sure enough, an indignant detective was standing on the terrace, wrapped up in only his scarf. "You have legs, don't you? You could have just walked over to us," John called towards him.

"You seemed to be deep in conversation, I simply didn't want to interrupt," Sherlock answered disinterestedly as he started walking over to John and his mother. When he reached them, John could instantly feel himself being deduced; Sherlock's scrutinising gaze searching his face, cocking his head to the side, and concentrating on gathering everything he could from what John probably didn't even know was there to find.

He couldn't help but smile, feeling already more at ease again after that emotionally intense conversation he'd just been pushed into.

Evangeline watched the scene in front of her silently, then she skilfully ordered them both back to the present. "Well then, seems it's getting cold out here anyway," she said, huddling deeper into her stole. "Dinner?"

John could see his smirk mirrored in Sherlock's face when they locked gazes and John answered, "Starving."

.

When they re-entered the house, the entrance hall and dining room were already bustling with nearly a dozen people in well kept white and formal uniforms. Maids were busy setting the huge polished table under sparkling lustres and John could see at least two footmen lighting up seemingly hundreds of golden and red candles all over the place. An enormous dark fireplace next to the sprawling double-flight staircase in the hall was elegantly decorated with fir boughs loosely wrapped round by golden linen bands, an impressive fire cracking cosily on the grate.

Sherlock handed his coat and scarf to a third footman, who hurried over to them as soon as the entrance doors closed. John smirked at Sherlock's bored 'get on with it or I might set something on fire for entertainment' expression, suddenly seeing with startling clarity a young man who had spent his childhood in ballrooms and at aristocratic dinner parties, playing hide and seek in the long hallways of Balmoral and Windsor.

John shook his head in sad wonderment, watching his friend vanish around the corner and towards the dining room table. What on earth was someone painfully ordinary like John doing here, really?

"Believe me, you fit in better than you might think," came the tenor to his left as Mycroft stepped over to him from where he had just come down the stairs.

John took the offered hand in a firm yet brief grip. "Unlikely, but thanks. Where is everyone, then? I thought the guest list was a tad longer than only the four of us?" he said, remembering Sherlock's earlier whining about 'those hordes of dumb, political vultures of Commonwealth descent.'

"Oh, not to worry, there will be plenty of them before long, but Mummy likes to keep the Christmas dinner a family matter. The ball will start just after eight, should the preparations be finished to her satisfaction by then."

"John!" called Sherlock from the dining hall. "Hurry up. Let's get this over with before that turkey manages to repel me completely."

John sighed fondly and, followed by Mycroft, joined his friend and Evangeline at the feast. Sherlock originally had made quite good progress about his mild eating disorder in their first months together, steadily increasing the number of the- albeit small and irregular- meals, and even starting to eat in the company of Mrs Hudson or at the relative safeness at Angelo's sometimes. His time away, though, had all but ruined John's subtle efforts of tackling his friend's resentment of refuelling in public. In the first few weeks he'd barely even been able to stand his old habit of picking food off John's plate and immediately bolted whenever a third party came into the room or walked over to their table. John was determined to work on the involuntary diet, especially after that first careful examination of his patient's maltreated, scarred and dangerously thin body. So far, Sherlock still shared terrifyingly little about his experiences on the hunt and John was left to guess at what the genius had gone through, making the doctor in him even more determined to heal and the soldier buzz with the need to hurt some unknown faces.

For now, though, John smiled at Evangeline across the loaded table, as she asked after his work with the homeless network and his times abroad. Sherlock was seated at his side, silently picking at a tiny slice of meat and stuffing without actually putting anything in his mouth, and completely ignoring the glass of Château Margaux in front of him.

Not for the first time this evening, John wondered if he'd accidently stepped into a Dickens novel. In between storytelling and bites of unthinkably delicious turkey, roasted potatoes and perfectly cooked and seasoned red cabbage, he enjoyed the underlying scent of cinnamon and baked apples, the tastefully arranged candles lighting up the high walls in a warm glow, and the silent, almost cheesy snowfall outside the arched windows. Every little detail seemed subtly styled to 'postcard Christmas' and John couldn't help but find it both terrifying and marvellous.

"Sherlock, dear, that can't be all you're going to eat," Evangeline's worried voice sounded into the temporary silence around the dinner table.

John looked over to the son in question, taking in the barely touched food on his plate and the misery in his eyes that was currently masked by an air of arrogant disinterest. John watched as Mycroft sniffed and started doing what he could best- feeding the fire of their feud.

"Well, Mummy. I think we all know of my brother's inability to value a perfect meal. We might as well free him from that burden." He waved at the first footman discreetly waiting nearby to clear away Sherlock's plate and glass, which he promptly did with impressive efficiency.

"Thank you, brother," Sherlock sneered once the place in front of him was empty, "this will definitely make me feel better."

"Always glad to help, as you know."

John ignored the snarky remarks and re-filled his empty wineglass with soda while Sherlock was busy provoking Mycroft, deducing the state of his diet- or the lack thereof. John then waited patiently for a silent staring contest across the turkey to commence. "Anything preferred?" he asked the genius next to him.

Sherlock acknowledged the question with no more than an irritated wave of his hand.

John shrugged and began re-filling his plate with vegetables. "String beans and grilled mushrooms it is, then. Any roasted bread with that?" He reached for the basket at the far end of the table.

"Hm," came the clipped reply.

John helped himself to another round of turkey and sauce and then began eating. "By the way, Mycroft- what was it about those texts I got from Anthea the other day, asking me to confirm the splitting of the Dubai stock?"

Mycroft turned his gaze apparently rather unwilling towards John. "They were misdirected. It seems we had a minor virus in our post office and the last digits of your phone number resemble those of the Arabian counsel."

John nodded politely while noticing with relief that Sherlock had grabbed his unused dessert fork and began picking at John's meal.

.

After dinner, they made their way through the long hallways of the manor to get ready for the ball starting in a few hours. As they passed by the open doors to a positively huge room, filled with dozens of uniformed people hurrying to and fro with decorative objects and furniture, John was reminded of a buzzing beehive. Following his gaze, Sherlock shrugged and led them up the stairs at the back of the house. "Mummy has rather specific ideas about the ball room design. They'll most likely be busy trying to satisfy her taste until the first guests arrive."

They walked for a couple of minutes before Sherlock finally came to a stop in front of an open door at the far end of a corridor, leading into a comfortable bedroom furnished with the house's usual polished dark wood, crème-coloured beddings and dark green walls and curtains. John's bag was at the entrance. Only _his_ bag.

An uneasy feeling began to spread in John's guts. "I guess you're not sleeping here?"

Sherlock's mask was firmly in place, but after all their time together John could see that his friend wasn't happy about the decision either. "I assume Bernadette has left my luggage in my old room."

"And where is that?" John asked. If it was just across the way or somewhere else nearby, then he would be able to hear the nightmares coming. He could leave the door slightly ajar and wake up the moment something went wrong- if he slept at all, that was. It would be manageable.

"In the main wing on the front side of the building."

"Right. Care to show the way?" Without further ado John went into the room, picked up his bag, threw it over his good shoulder and followed Sherlock back to the main entrance and up the front stairs.

The main wing was indeed somewhat different from the guest wing. The walls of the first and second floor hallways were nearly overflowing with paintings. Picturesque European landscapes and French city skylines dating back to the 19th and 18th century were interspersed by family portraits that went back at least six generations (of course the elegant frames came with a title written on a brazen badge). Some of them looked so lifelike that John almost expected them to start telling stories of Hogwarts and Salazar.

When they came by a portrait made at Sherlock's 7th birthday, John had to force himself to keep on walking and not pause to stare. Even a short glimpse in passing was enough to take him back. In his youth, John had never seen anything of the house's interior above the ground floor, but simply being back on the once familiar grounds was like a constant time warp for him- No need to top that off by getting stuck in front of a bloody painting like a freaking Toreador vampire.

Only a few minutes later, though, Sherlock came to a halt in front of another door- this one closed. He opened it and stepped aside to let John in first.

It was both cosy and sad. John's two semesters psychology back at uni screamed 'hiding place' at him and his time at Sherlock's side made him recognise the early stages of an impromptu lab. The dark blue walls were bare except for a 1:1 poster of a human skeleton across from the king size four-poster bed, and at least half a dozen framed certificates- one stating that young Sherlock had mastered his third language, Latin, at the age of 6. One was proof that he had successfully participated in a tournament in Asian fighting techniques at the age of 8. And one frame held the invitation to 'Hamlet' at Harrow's with Sherlock's name as lead actor.

There was a large bookshelf filled with books about chemistry, anatomy, loads of stories about pirates, knights and detectives, some music books and sheets of music, and a few about bee keeping and poisonous insects. On a desk at the far wall to the right, situated directly under one of the three big windows, there were notebooks, mugs, Erlenmeyer flasks and tripods next to a scale and small copper kettle.

John shook his head in mild amusement- 'potion master' all over again.

"You can use the on-suit first, if you like," Sherlock stated upon flinging himself backwards on his bed and immediately beginning to type away on his phone- probably checking his emails for fresh, interesting cases.

John nodded, more to himself than to his friend who wouldn't notice him at this moment anyway. He took his garment bag and his luggage and closed the door to Sherlock's old private bathroom behind him. Stepping under the hot spray of the shower, he was unpleasantly reminded of the cold temperatures outside and the rather long journey, for his stiff shoulder only slowly began to loosen up its cramped muscles around the scar tissue. John leaned against the cool tiles with his forehead and let the calming water massage his back for a few minutes.

He wasn't very keen on wearing his dress uniform, to say the least, but Evangeline had insisted. John sighed as he turned the water off and stepped out of the shower. The last time he'd worn the uniform was at the burial of Carter, a young guy he'd lost in Helmand just before the ambush had happened and from one second to the next John had been a veteran and about to find something he hadn't even realised he'd missed.

After having shaved and brushed his teeth he resignedly put on the uniform and went into the bedroom- stopping in surprise, because Sherlock was sitting up straight, staring right at him.

'_What?'_ John raised his eyebrows.

Wordlessly, Sherlock stood and crossed the room, halting directly in front of John. His eyes were jumping across John's face, scanning again. Then they skidded further down his chest towards the medals and ribbons.

Silently, Sherlock's hand rose to touch the first cross-shaped commendation. "George Cross," he stated quietly. "Gallantry award for bravery in non-combat situations."

John winced, trying to not think of the five children who had been buried alive in their hut due to an earth slide in Kuwait. John and his comrade had dug for hours until they'd found all of them. The youngest one, still an infant, had not made it.

Sherlock seemed to be busy filing new information into his Mind Palace. "Conspicuous Gallantry Cross. Outstanding bravery during active operations against the enemy."

John didn't deserve that one. He'd lost three men that day.

"Military Cross plus one Bar. Exemplary gallantry facing the enemy. Two times." Sherlock's touch felt like burning through the cloth on John's chest.

Their base camp had been under heavy attack since early morning. The field hospital was about to catch fire from a nearby explosion. John went in. He didn't even manage to safe half of them. Second time was for his shoulder.

"Royal Red Cross. Exceptional services in military nursing. They made an exception, for you weren't actually a nurse but a doctor."

John swallowed. "65 casualties. There was an attacked village in which we were temporarily stationed. Mostly civilians. We worked 72 hours almost non-stop. We lost 13 children, two women. Sent home afterwards because we were hopelessly sleep deprived and most of us couldn't even think straight anymore."

Sherlock pointed at the General Service Medal. "This one was for your services in Northern Ireland."

"Yes. Stating my survival." He'd never really understood the set 30 day mark on a tour, or the medal itself, for that matter. He figured they just needed a way to show the place of the respective employment on the dress uniform.

"Operational Service Medal for Afghanistan. Iraq Medal. Gulf Medal. Accumulated Campaign Service Medal for 36 months on tour." His finger rested on the last silver coin and its ribbon only recently arrived via Mycroft. "Syria Medal," Sherlock finished. There was something akin to pride in his voice.

"Sherlock," John began quietly, "I'm not glad or proud to have those. In the course of 'deserving' most of them I killed or lost good people. I did what I had to do to help, or to protect, or to survive. I need the action to stay sane. But I can't celebrate it. That's just not me."

"You're wrong."

"At what?"

"I had a look into your army records, remember? You deserve every single one of those medals, John." He locked gazes with him. "Every. Single. One."

John smiled weakly. "Thank you. That means a lot coming from you. Being complimented."

"Oh, it's just a phase, I'm sure," Sherlock smirked. "Don't get used to it."

XXX


	19. Chapter 19

.

**Part 3 – Chapter 4**

.

**Date: December 24****th****, 2013. 2015 hours.**

**Position: Great Hall of **_**Holmes Manor**_**, Pensford (51° 22′ 15.6″ N, 2° 32′ 47.76″ W****)****, Somerset, England.**

.

When the wide wooden doors to the Great Hall opened before them, John almost couldn't recognise it as the same room he had witnessed the busy preparations in only hours before.

All the walls and tables, which were now delicately arranged around the room, were positively gleaming with the soft light of hundreds of golden and red candles in polished silver holders. The parquet was brimming with all different kinds of high class or aristocratic people of the Commonwealth in classic made-to-measure suits and long tailored ball gowns. Although John was used to large official gatherings due to his former position in the army, the Holmeses' Christmas ball managed to leave him stunned and speechless.

Sherlock, on the other hand, seemed his usual blank masked self- obviously on the verge of being 'dangerously bored'- as he led John further into the hall to greet Evangeline.

John had to smile, though, when he saw the sparkling light of the gigantic Christmas tree's ornaments caught up beautifully in the genius' silver eyes as they neared it. But instead of walking on, Sherlock stirred them towards it until they stopped right in front of the impressive centre of this year's Christmas ball. When John looked over at his friend with a question on his lips, he was surprised to actually witness Sherlock being truly, honestly stunned for once. Apparently captivated by some of the ancient glass baubles between the fir branches, his eyes suddenly shone with an unexpected turmoil of emotions.

As John followed his gaze, he could make out the names of the closest Holmes family members on a few of the ornaments, decoratively written in calligraphic letters. He saw the name of Sherlock's deceased father Cyrus on a golden one. And Mycroft's, of course. Evangeline's name was written out on a dark red bauble in lines so elegant they were almost invisible amongst the broader names of her husband's and oldest son's. And Sherlock's fine signature on a silver ornament was right next to- He stopped short.

John's name was miraculously amongst them.

Perplexed, he stared at the cream-coloured glassy decoration. Mycroft had told him that his surveillance status had been upgraded to 'family' even before Sherlock's encounter with Moriarty all those months ago. But that had been a political decision mainly motivated by convenience so that Mycroft could avoid nasty questions getting asked- This, though, was private. It was their family holiday. Tradition and home- even for the so called emotionless brothers.

He was still caught up in his own thoughts when John's heart began to stutter and he suddenly felt the feather light touch of Sherlock's fingertips on the inside of his own hand. He forced himself to relax and to not wrap his fingers around his friend's on instinct. Concentrating on the soft touches he let his hand hang loosely open instead, trying to figure out what was going on.

After a moment he recognised the light pattern as Morse.

And then his breath caught before he could control himself- Written out on the sensitive skin of his palm stood Sherlock's way of confessing, undeniable and for no one else to witness but John.

Y_O_U.

Oh, God, was he asleep? This couldn't possibly be happening. Right? This was ridiculous. It was just not logical or even likely. It was insane. Pure, utter madness. This was it then, he'd turned round the bend. Jesus. Sherlock Holmes, the world's only consulting detective, insufferable git, and the first person to ever show a thick headed army doctor what helplessly falling truly meant, was actually telling him that he wanted him, loved him? _Him_. Plain, normal, tedious John Watson?

God, how he wished it was true, that this was really what he thought it was- what he _felt_ it was, because- oh holy Jesus Christ, how he wished it was.

Snapping back out of his rampaging mind and spinning insides, John became aware of Sherlock beginning and ending the same pattern again and again and again. Probably having realised that John was frozen in place. He almost expected the 'shut up, you're thinking too loud' to come up at any moment now. But Sherlock only kept signalling 'You' over and over in Morse. Soft, steady touches caressing his open palm for what felt like minutes, until finally John managed to pull himself out of his paralysis because,_ yes_, this _was_ happening. And Sherlock was still waiting patiently for him to give him some sort of reply.

He couldn't help but squeeze Sherlock's hand, just once, before he began to lightly draw out his answer. And heard Sherlock's breath catch in return, as John tried to express in just a single word the complex feeling of being safe, and content, and sure, and the goddamn luckiest person. To name the one and all-encompassing feeling of having lost what truly mattered and what he once thought never to be able to find at all. What he'd missed. What he'd mourned. What probably nobody would ever understand- that Sherlock Holmes was John Watson's centre since the day they'd met. His life. His-

H_O_M_E.

John was absolutely positive that he would have crashed down in a rather embarrassing, hyperventilating fit of laughter in the face of this crazy rollercoaster that somehow was his life- if Evangeline and Mycroft had not chosen that exact moment to wander over to them. As it was, he restricted himself to a slightly manic grin which threatened to split his face in two nonetheless. When John looked over at Sherlock, he saw the ever present mask pulled back into place even though the emotions were still dancing in those eyes.

Evangeline, upon reaching them noticing this as well, looked from Sherlock to John and back again while a mischievous expression crept up on her face. "John, darling, would you do me the honour of accompanying me on a walk through the crowd?" she asked after a moment.

"With pleasure, my Lady," he said, bowing slightly. "Though I'm not quite sure yet, if you're trying to safe or torture me with your request." John winked playfully at her, silently regretting having to leave Sherlock's side just then.

"Oh," she giggled, "nothing like that, Captain. Only the usual socialising and small talk. Tedious, I confess, but I'm sure with you by my side it will be a much more entertaining event than last year."

"Don't believe a word she's saying, John," Sherlock snapped. "She likely just wants to show you off."

"Shush, now, Sherlock. I promise to bring him back to you before the night ends." She waved him off and took John's arm.

"Gracious," came the muttered response as Evangeline already stirred him towards two elderly gentlemen who stood with whiskey and cigars next to the bar.

"Mr Hall, Mr Thatcher," she discreetly called upon reaching them.

They turned and bowed respectfully, kissing her hand. "Lady Holmes."

"Baroness," the second gentleman breathed.

"Gentlemen, I would like you to meet Captain John Watson. A close friend of my youngest."

Their eyes lit up at hearing that description and they eagerly stepped forward and shook his hand in a firm grip.

"Pleasure to meet you," John said, smiling.

"And you, young man. Good to see that finally someone is capable of directing the young Honourable into securer waters," Mr Thatcher said, winking.

"Mr Hall and Mr Thatcher are old confidantes of the family. Especially gifted in questions about law and order and all dangers of navigation," Evangeline offered as explanation.

"Oh, I think I can reassure you, then." John nodded, mock-serious. "We'd only one accidental arrestment in the last six months."

The old men guffawed and Mr Hall clapped him on the upper arm. "So, Captain. Army? Active duty?"

"Recently retired," John replied. "Nowadays, I'm mostly volunteering in my second profession as a surgeon and try to keep a certain consulting detective out of heavy gunfire."

"You're a doctor?" Thatcher asked interested. "You don't look like protected medic-material. I recognise a man who knows his fight when I meet'em."

"They thought about solely medic duties on my first tour," John agreed.

"So they didn't stick to it?"

"Well, after a while of hiding and stitching between burning car wrecks in Ireland, I was about to turn bonkers, frankly. A few weeks later they saw reason and transferred me to the armed brigades. From then on I sort of split my time between field surgery and patrols with my respective team."

"You seem to be quite an active fellow, for sure. But I guess you'll have to be, if you're keeping up with Sherlock," Hall mused, stroking his grey moustache.

John laughed. "He's outrunning me on a regular basis, I'm afraid."

"Well, gentlemen. I fear I must take the good Doctor with me for now. But you'll most likely have time to share old stories later, as the evening is still young," Evangeline said, smiling pleasantly while leading John back into the crowd alongside the dance floor.

When a thin lady in a bilious green dress and black framed glasses on her peaked nose approached them, John thought for a moment he heard his host sigh resignedly. But when he looked over to her, the perfect mask of political tact didn't sport any cracks whatsoever.

"Evangeline, darling," the woman, slightly younger than Sherlock's mother, greeted her lavishly.

"Audrey, how glad I am that you could make it this year as well."

They fake-kissed once on their left and once on their right cheek. John stood back and waited for the next round of introductions and small talk when suddenly Audrey's eyes landed on him and she actually had the nerves to sniff arrogantly. "Don't tell me you're inviting the security staff now as well. Is this some part of that New Age-style?"

John didn't wait for Evangeline to set the records straight. He stepped forward and kissed Audrey's hand. "Doctor John H. Watson. I'm quite glad you mentioned this topic, my lady. I was just about to point out to Evangeline that I found the security measures for this year a bit worrisome." Audrey looked perplexed, seemingly trying to get her footing back in this conversation. "In fact, I happened to notice a few dubious persons who show a severe lack of knowledge about how to behave in front of the kind Baroness and her personal guests."

Audrey was still gasping without offering an actual reply, so John gave her a short nod and then turned to his companion as Evangeline now said, "See, John. I told you it was a good idea to talk to all of the guests. At these kinds of social events one rarely has the possibility to select more wisely. Would you accompany me to the bar?"

He smirked. "Absolutely, my Lady. Lead on."

John waited until they were a few more paces away before he voiced his concern. "I'm sorry, if I overstepped, Evangeline."

She looked at him and the practically childlike grin spreading across her face almost left him speechless. "You cannot be serious, John. This was the most fun I had in that shrews company since Winston run the quite expansive life-sized portrait of her down without noticing her eavesdropping."

John chuckled, relieved. "Well in that case, I'm always happy to be of assistance."

While they resumed their way from guest to guest, engaging in small talk and light political conversation with distant relatives and other influential members of the nation for the next hour, John's eyes unconsciously started searching the room for a certain mop of unruly dark hair. Not for the first time that evening John's thoughts were wandering back to the scene before the Christmas tree, wondering what it all meant, remembering Sherlock's expression so full of emotion, his gentle touch.

"I won't ask," Evangeline whispered into John's ear while walking, apparently having sensed his mind's temporary preoccupation.

He looked over to her and saw her eyes sparkling with barely concealed joy. He was stunned by the loving certainty with which she had welcomed him to her family even at this early stage of... whatever it was that had happened earlier.

"And I have to thank you for that, because I honestly wouldn't know what to reply." Finally he found the man in question standing once more at his brother's side, discussing something through gritted teeth. "He completely caught me off guard. As per usual, really."

A soft smile made it back to his lips as he witnessed Sherlock dramatically turning on his heels and storming off to the orchestra, leaving Mycroft standing there without sparing him a second glance.

Evangeline followed his gaze to where Sherlock was now talking to the director in hushed voices, softly pitching a violin he'd seemingly produced out of thin air. She turned back to John and smiled knowingly. "Well, I'm sure you two will figure out whatever this new development means."

The next moment she looked troubled though, biting her skilfully made-up lower lip in an uncharacteristic sign of nervousness. "I am sorry for asking you this, John," she said at last, "because I know you would never do anything to harm my boy. But please bear with me; I just need to hear you say it." She swallowed and locked gazes with John, gripping his arm tightly, motherly worry evaporating from every inch of her beautiful face. "Please, darling, you mustn't push him. He lived through far too much in his life already. I... please."

Now it was John's turn to swallow at the lump in his throat. "I won't. Of course I won't. I promise you."

Evangeline simply nodded and looked back towards her son. Slowly, they wandered back to the Christmas tree and John came to stand next to 'his' bauble, watching in fascination as Sherlock prepared the shiny, positively classy violin. Tuning it even though the small orchestra had resumed their playing right next to him.

"Does he have perfect pitch?" He wondered aloud upon seeing this.

"Oh, it was never clinically tested but his father claimed as much. And since neither of us has it, it's unlikely to be genetic- he must have trained himself as a child in order to play and compose even more accurately."

John shook his head in amazement. He could have stood there in the middle of a party he didn't really belong to, at a place he'd left long ago, surrounded by people who owned more than his whole family would ever have and who had more power and influence than John could probably even imagine- and simply watch Sherlock Holmes prepare to show off to half of the country's royalty.

He smiled to himself, remembering the very first time when his friend had played for him in Baker Street. John had been doing the dishes- he'd originally planned to simply sit through it until his mad flatmate would do it himself, but when said flatmate one morning had declared the mould that had started to grow in one of the breakfast bowls to be his next experiment involving rotten eggs, John had accepted temporary orderly retreat. As he'd been standing at the sink, though, up to both elbows in dish water and humming an old song he had picked up somewhere between the flat and Tesco's hours prior, he suddenly found himself joined by an achingly sweet melody coming from the sitting room. Sherlock had been standing at the window, observing the street below, playing 'Ode to Joy' and softly singing the (assumingly) original lyrics by Schiller along with it.

The dish water had gone cold after that. John had stood there for an hour easily, listening to this mystery of a man who put severed human body parts in the fridge (and one memorable time in the cupboard, together with John's tea) and now coaxed the most beautiful notes from his instrument in a private concert. That smooth baritone of his made John feel as if he'd been standing in the middle of an ancient cathedral.

"Well, well. Look at that."

Pulled back to the present, John looked over to where Evangeline was watching her son near the orchestral podium. "He didn't play for an audience in this house for years."

"He seems comfortable with that violin, though," John mused, as Sherlock now let the bow drift quietly over the strings a few times.

Evangeline smiled gently. "It's Cyrus' Stradivari. Sherlock first learned how to play on it before he got his own exemplar."

John tried to ignore his assumptions being confirmed about the worth of those two beautiful instruments. "Since when does he play?"

"Oh, I think he was about three."

John laughed at that, shaking his head in astonishment. "Sometimes when I see him play it's like being swept into a different sphere. He's completely immersed in his music, then. Forgetting everything around him, just feeling his melodies, locking himself away in his heart.

Evangeline scrutinised him for a moment. "You said 'heart'- not 'mind'," she stated at last.

John pulled up his eyebrows in wonderment. "Yes."

She nodded then, seemingly satisfied. "Well, dear Captain, I would think this one will be for you."

John, surprised, followed her gaze back to his friend-

And locked eyes with him.

The orchestra was now quiet, waiting for their entry. Sherlock still stood slightly to the side, violin in position, holding John's gaze. The hall went completely still, one guest after another realising the change in performance that was about to take place. Sherlock seemed perfectly calm on the outside. Not moving a muscle. He simply continued to hold John's gaze across the room.

John could almost _feel_ him waiting, searching, asking for confirmation one more time. Wanting to be sure. To be safe.

John nodded. Slowly, just once. Feeling his heart pound in his chest.

And as the first elegant notes of Sherlock's music filled the hall, silencing the crowd of the rich and mighty in curious anticipation, John lost himself in watching his friend's contently concentrated face as he sunk into a slow version of Ode to Joy. Beside him, he heard Evangeline sigh in relief. "Thank you, John."

'_Freude, schöner Götterfunken, Tochter aus Elysium,_

_Wir betreten feuertrunken, Himmlische, dein Heiligtum!_

_Alte Zauber binden wieder, was die Mode streng geteilt;_

_Alle Menschen werden Brüder, wo dein sanfter Flügel weilt._

_Wem der große Wurf gelungen, eines Freundes Freund zu sein;_

_Wer ein holdes Weib errungen, mische seinen Jubel ein!_

_Ja, wer auch nur eine Seele sein nennt auf dem Erdenrund!_

_Und wer's nie gekonnt, der stehle weinend sich aus diesem Bund!'_

Almost 200 years of time had done nothing to the song's amazing sound under Sherlock's talented fingers and John found himself swallowed up in the swift easy movements, the precise yet almost sensitive grip at the fret board. The careful, nearly questioning note at the beginning of each new stave, the joyous, powerful whirlwind of a melody at the end.

John stood there, feeling the music drift through his body, tingling in his fingers, reverberating in his chest.

Then the orchestra joined in, sweeping the music up to fill the Great Hall of Holmes Manor with an imposing volume of rich, festive sounds.

When one of the guests (an old gentleman and still one bear of a man who John had shared drinks and opinions on Afghan politics with earlier) started singing the lyrics in a loud and rhythmic bass and most of the rest of the room followed suit, some of them even dancing a slow waltz, John felt a grin of utter happiness spread over his face.

When he looked over to Sherlock's mother, she was clasping her hands before her elegant lips, crying softly. John hesitated for a moment, but then he gently pulled her in with his right arm, holding her close and offering silent comfort. "Oh, John," she whispered after a while of silent tears. "You have no idea what you managed to do."

At the end of the song, Sherlock's violin leapt into a short, rhythmic, dramatic sounding melody, his bow switching between an almost jumping motion and a high pitched sliding, his body swaying to the music, eyes closed.

Then the orchestra joined in again with two different sheets of music, playing against each other, complimenting each other, driving each other and Sherlock's lead melody to an upbeat mix of at least eight different violins, some trumpets and a concert flute. It sounded sad and wistful, confident and relieved at the same time.

John laughed when he finally recognised it as something Coldplay had done some years ago. Apparently, Sherlock had uploaded a few charts songs to his Mind Palace while he was away.

John had barely finished the thought when Sherlock looked up and over to him, smirking.

One moment later, his friend gave a short sign to the orchestra and they dove into a fast intro with short staccato notes, trumpets, piano and violins, until Sherlock joined them with such a rapid and swift beat that John saw more than a few guests stare open mouthed at the deeply concentrated genius, completely engrossed in his music.

When he ended the song with notes like a statement so clear and dramatic, John began applauding with slow loud claps, until the rest of the hall followed suit and congratulated the now bowing detective.

"Jesus, I've never seen him play like that," John said after a few moments when the orchestra had resumed their regular playlist and most couples were dancing or conversing once more under the sparkling ornaments of the Christmas decorations.

"He certainly seemed... inspired," Evangeline answered mischievously, composed and cheery once again.

"I do confess having this kind of conversation with you is starting to feel a bit weird, Baroness," John stated, mock serious.

Evangeline chuckled melodiously and nodded towards where Sherlock was currently storing away his father's instrument. John patted her arm gently and made his way over to his friend, once again cursing the fact that he had to wear his dress uniform which made his person far too noticeable for his liking. He preferred the by-the-way-stealth of a hobbit; standing in the centre of common attention wasn't really part of his comfort zone. Even now, he could feel far too many eyes following him.

"Did she finally let you out of her festive, conversing claws?" Sherlock asked without turning when John reached him.

John smiled. "Your mother is a very kind lady. And, God, yes- I'm glad I seem to be done with the introductions and small talk to the rich and mighty for now."

"I told you she only wanted to show you off."

"And here I was wondering where the hell you got _that_ from," John laughed. "I'm quite done in; care to join me at the bar, maestro?"

Sherlock smirked. "Are you trying to get me drunk, _Captain_?" His voice dropped to such a low purr that John's long tried self-control was in for another round within mere seconds.

"If the process is linked to that voice, then yes, definitely," he stated, only half joking. "Otherwise I'd prefer you being completely aware of what's happening tonight."

John grinned playfully as he saw Sherlock swallow at that. The detective cleared his throat and waved a distracted hand. "Oh, I would have chosen a glass of red wine, anyway."

They chuckled quietly while they made their way over to the tall floor to ceiling windows wrapped up in dark brocade. "Oh, so no disturbing food in sight, then?" John asked when Sherlock, true to his word, reached for a bottle of exquisite looking wine, remembering the one memorable instance when he'd tried to serve some cheese at their 'Wine and Movies-Evenings.'

Sherlock rolled his eyes, filling one glass with the red fluid and a smaller one with Single Malt, handing it to John. "My own mother should know better than to torture me with a Château Margaux next to _turkey_," he sneered. "What a shame. I had my last glass of it over ten years ago."

"Only you would mourn the opportunity to taste a 30.000 pound wine _again_." John shook his head fondly, nipping at his exquisite whiskey.

"I think anyone with at least some taste would," came a nasal, arrogant voice from behind them.

John could feel Sherlock tense as they turned and faced Sebastian Wilkes. Having met his father earlier, John had by far enough impressions of his yearly share of arseholes, thank you very much. But he sensed that Sherlock was all but frozen in place, teleported back in time to lonely, harassed school years when he'd not only tried to conquer his own (at times self-destructive) brain, but the terror of hormones running amok and his fellow students on a daily basis as well. Instinctively, John took a step forward, the hand holding his whiskey unnoticeably gripping tighter. "Wilkes. What a happy surprise."

Wilkes wrinkled his posh nose at him. "I had to see it with my own eyes. My old man just told me that you brought your _colleague_ to a private circle like this. You didn't _hire_ him, did you?"

'_This is my friend, John Watson.'_

'_Friend?_

'_Colleague.'_

'_Don't get sidetracked. I hired you to do a job.'_

'_I don't need an incentive, Sebastian.'_

John would have inwardly cringed at the memories of his first meeting with Wilkes if he wasn't in full guard-mode right now. "Actually, Lady Evangeline invited me personally. As her son's best friend and partner."

"Best friend?" Wilkes eyebrows rose in scepticism and Sherlock pulled in a deep breath as if waking up from a long stasis.

John took another step forward, now standing well in Wilkes personal space. He dropped his voice to a low threat and transmitted in every syllable what he once already made the British Government realise. "To every. Consequence. Imaginable," he breathed dangerously, never averting his eyes.

And as Wilkes actually took a surprised step backwards, John smiled coldly.

Sherlock stepped close to John, almost leaning into him, and raised his glass in toast. "Merry Christmas, Seb. Hope you'll be able to enjoy the servings as long as you're here. By the way, I would ask your father about what happened to your trust fund recently, if I were you."

And then they both watched on as _Seb_ retreated with a nasty scowl on his lips.

"God, I want to punch that guy. Wanted to since the Blind Banker, to be fair." John took another sip from his drink, keeping an eye on Wilkes as the man searched for a quiet place to lick his wounds.

Sherlock rolled his eyes but smiled. "If he'd known your ridiculous title for his case then he might as well have presented you with an opportunity."

"Might have been nice."

"Oh, I doubt you would have enjoyed it all that much- he was literally miserable at boxing. He wouldn't have lasted a single round against you," grinned Sherlock, turning to slowly wander through the hall, observing and deducing the guests with John back at his side as it should be.

XXX

**Author' notes:** For those who are interested in Sherlock's music- I shamelessly borrowed the impression from the gorgeous and amazingly talented David Garrett and his interpretation of the songs 'Ode to Joy', 'Viva la Vida' and 'Tico Tico'. The English translation to Schiller's original lyrics can be found on the Wikipedia article to 'Symphony No. 9 (Beethoven)' and begin like this:

'_Joy, beautiful spark of the divinity, Daughter from Elysium,_

_We enter your sanctuary, burning with fervour, o heavenly being!_

_Your magic brings together what custom has sternly divided._

_All men shall become brothers, wherever your gentle wings hover._

_Whoever has been lucky enough to become a friend to a friend,_

_Whoever has found a beloved wife, let him join our songs of praise!_

_Yes, and anyone who can call one soul his own on this earth!_

_Any who cannot, let them slink away from this gathering in tears!'_

XXX


	20. Chapter 20

.

**Part 3 – Chapter 5**

.

**Date: December 24****th****, 2013. 2341 hours.**

**Position: Grounds of **_**Holmes Manor**_**, Pensford (51° 22′ 15.6″ N, 2° 32′ 47.76″ W** **)** **, Somerset, England.**

.

About two hours later, as the ball was coming to an end, the guests were slowly starting to leave and John had stepped outside to finally get some air.

He'd searched the grounds around the manor for ten minutes already, when he finally saw the snowy, gnarled branches looming a good three meters above the frozen grass, reaching up into the darkening night sky. He stepped up to the trunk and, while laying a hand to the rough bark, let his gaze wander over the numerous old marks and healed wounds which the apple tree had lived through in all its years, showing its unyielding will to survive. To keep going.

He couldn't believe it was still standing.

John had started trimming the fruit trees on the property that one summer over 30 years ago, and had found this particular fellow to be badly wounded by a small explosion in its crown a few days prior. The owner's plan had been to cut it down. So John had resigned himself to the task of getting rid of the branches first until the gardener had time to come over with the chainsaw for the trunk.

But when the young John of his past arrived at the poor goner the next day, there stood a tiny boy, more than one head shorter than John and so thin and pale he looked like a birch twig, about to break at the next breeze.

Then the boy turned to face him and it was like looking into liquid fire.

Underneath a mop of curly dark hair the kid's eyes gleamed and sparkled with an energy John was unable to place at first. His clothes looked expensive, but one knee was heavily stained with mud and wet grass. He reminded John of one of the characters in a fairy tale he'd recently read. A lonely magician with a fire demon in his heart.

"You," the boy said with an arrogant tone to the tiny voice. "What's your name, boy?" he demanded, holding himself straight, apparently trying to look imposing.

John smiled at the urge to look taller than one's actual height. He could totally sympathise with that. "I'm John. So what's your name then, Mr Holmes?"

The boy seemed surprised for a moment until he shook himself and tried to school his features into an uninterested scowl. "You're not as stupid as the morons before you."

John frowned. "What's that s'posed to mean?" It occurred to him that 'Howl' still hadn't told his real name. He shrugged. Fine by him.

"It means that you might be useful. Obvious," Howl sniffed.

"Ah," John grinned. That kid talked like nobody he'd ever met- nobody younger than his grandparents anyway. "So, would you step away from that tree? I really need to get started before sunset. Don't want to climb up there in the dark."

It was Howl's turn to frown. "Why?"

John raised his eyebrows in surprise. The boy seemed to be quite clever but this he didn't get? "Because I need the money, so I have to finish this today, but I don't have enough light when it's dark and I don't fancy breaking my legs?"

"No, why do you want me to go away?" There was a strange mix of resigned hurt and stubbornness in his voice now.

Somehow, this and the look in Howl's eyes made John want to comfort him. Even though he couldn't really place this feeling either. "Because I have to cut the tree down and I don't want you to get hurt while I'm doing that," he said softly.

For a second the kid seemed reassured. But then the tiny eyebrows came together again. "Why do you want to kill it?"

John moved to lean the ladder against the trunk. "Because it was hurt and now it's going to die anyway."

"No!" Howl shouted suddenly and stomped his foot, balling his little fists at his sides. "It wasn't _hurt_, it was just an _experiment_! Experiments aren't supposed to hurt or kill things. Father told me that. And I researched it. It's valid."

Oh.

So this boy had caused the explosion?

Turning back around, John saw tears glistening in Howl's eyes. He sighed. How to explain this to an elementary kid? "But calling it an experiment is not some kind of magic trick, you know?" John tried. "It depends on what you use for your experiments and what you do with it- if you smash a vase to the ground to see what happens, it's still broken afterwards, right? If you put explosives into the crown of a tree, it's going to die because it's wounded."

Working on calming himself down again after his little outburst, Howl seemed to consider John's words. "But it's not dead."

"Not yet, it isn't," John agreed.

"So, one has to heal it. Simple enough: cause and effect." He looked rather proud that he'd worked that out.

"One could try to, yeah, I guess," John answered carefully.

"So do it," Howl ordered.

John's eyebrows rose again. "Do what?"

"Heal it. Make it better. Do your thing," Howl waved his hand dismissively when he seemed to search for the proper words. "That's what normal people do, yes? Helping ..._caring_? I saw you healing that pigeon the other day. "

"But it's my job to cut it _down_," John reasoned sadly. And the bird had just been a bit dazed from bumping against the window, really. Not much there for him to do.

Howl shook his black mop. "It's your 'job' to solve the tree problem. Solve it differently."

John smiled at the logic. "Well, I guess we could try." He already felt himself wanting to make this kid feel better for whatever reason. "But I can't promise you anything, alright? It might not work out. I only ever healed small animals before, you know. Never a tree," he said, sticking to Howl's chosen metaphor.

"It will work," Howl stated with utter confidence.

"Oh, is that your scientific opinion?" John asked grinning, while he grabbed the saw and started climbing the ladder.

Howl positioned himself under the biggest splintered branch, looking up. "It's the result of comparison to the world's greatest stories, so it's only reasonable. 'The Scientist and the Healer' has every potential one needs for a good adventure book."

John laughed and Howl sniggered. It was a small, unsure sound, almost like an afterthought. As if the kid didn't have much experience in being happy. John quickly sobered up at the thought and looked down to Howl, where he was still standing next to the trunk, smiling up at him expectantly with big fiery eyes.

Something inside John rumoured at the sight, but he ignored it and instead began sawing off the wounded branches and twigs.

"So... you're doing experiments?" John asked after a while, when he was busy coating a mix of resin and wax as wound closure onto the open bark. "Like, proper science and stuff?"

"Yes, it's the only thing you can do at this place that's not _boring_," Howl answered from his seat on a firm healthy branch to John's right.

"Found out anything interesting, yet?" John moved up a bit to pull out some sort of pottery shard stuck to the middle of the trunk.

"Everything I find out is interesting or I wouldn't bother finding it out," Howl said in a you're-an-idiot-voice.

John ignored the miffed tone of his companion. "Anything recent, then?"

"Well, I know that your father has an affair with a woman who is not your mother, obviously, but you know about that and hate him for it. Quite justified, I think."

John goggled at him. "How did you know _that_?"

Howl seemed to assess his reaction for a moment before he continued a bit hesitatingly but nevertheless full of enthusiasm for his observation. "When he picks you up after your work days here, he isn't wearing his wedding ring, but you can see from the pale line around his finger that he usually does. He reeks of women's perfume, often even spotting telltale marks on his collar from her make-up. You don't hug him when you approach him then, though you do so when he's bringing you here in the mornings. So: Not your mother's toiletries. Clearly. It's a habit of him because you don't react to the signs anymore, so you are used to them by now. You are blaming him and his affairs for losing his job but you are a family type so you can't ignore the situation. That's why you're coming here in your summer break to work the gardens and earn some money to support the household and in the hope of keeping your mother from drinking in her misery."

"Drinking?"

"You and your father both reek of alcohol when you arrive here every day- I heard my brother complain about it to Mummy- but she keeps you here because she says your breath is clear of it. So you don't drink it yourself. Could be an older sibling, but mother is statistically more likely. The smell of the booze is sticking to your clothes because she hides her secret staff in the laundry room. Simple."

John stared at the kid who was now studying a group of people in the distance with a concerned scowl on his lips. "That..." he spoke before he knew which words his mouth was forming, "was _amazing_!"

Howl's head whipped around so fast that he hit his temple on a large branch. He winced even though he was already looking up at John in utter surprise. "You think so?!"

John laughed. "Of course it was. It's cool! How did you learn that?"

Howl smiled one of his tentative half-smiles. "By reading and experimenting." He seemed to consider this for a moment. "And by stealing my brother's journals. He's a grown up so he's got lots of money to buy new ones anyway," he added by way of explanation.

"Wow. That sounds like a lot of work, though," John said, still awed.

Howl shrugged. "It's fun. And I have a lot of time to fill."

"But... surely you don't do this _all_ the time."

"Why not?"

"Um, that sounds a bit lonely," John noted sadly. "Don't you have other kids to play with?"

Howl snorted. "I try to avoid them. Mummy doesn't approve of the head wounds."

"What?" John's head snapped up. "Where do you get head wounds from?"

Howl rolled his eyes. "From the beating, John. Do keep up."

"Why, in _hell_, would they beat you up?"

"Because they're stupid and boring. That's just the way normal people are. They think you're a freak for being superior in intelligence and start to hurt you. That's why I try to spend my time alone." He sounded utterly detached for a small kid. Like he had come to terms with this, years ago. "And don't tell me it's my own fault for doing experiments. That is getting lame by now," he added, somehow managing to send a stubborn _and_ bored look in the direction of the house.

"Don't worry. I wouldn't." John aggressively stabbed the brush back into the pot with wound closure and onto the next raw patch of the tree.

Howl blinked at him, perplexed. "You look angry."

"Of course I'm bloody angry! I'm angry at those kids!" In fact, he started hoping they would show up at just this moment. "And I'm angry at whoever told you it's your fault!"

"Don't be," Howl said, sounding way too calm for a bullied kid. "My brother and father only applied logic. And they already tried to do something about the children- one of the families involved suddenly had to move," he stated coolly. The thought of what might have happened to them made John shudder for a second. "But it didn't help; it only made matters worse in the end." Howl focused on trying to help a fly which had gotten stuck to the liquid patch of wax in front of him. "Anyway, I got used to it."

John shook his head in disbelief. "_How_ can you get used to that?"

"I ignore them. Those children are just _normal_," he spit the word out as if it tasted foul. "They can't help it. It's evolution- treating me like a freak is in their nature. And it's my nature to stay away from them," he said, smiling satisfied when he succeeded in his rescue mission. "I'm working to perfect my strategies on that part. One day, I'll be a grown up and then I will _make_ them stay away," he explained, looking up at John once more, complete determination written all over his small face.

John swallowed, starting to reach for Howls hand but stopping himself midway. "Well, I'm normal but you're spending time with me," he said instead. Then he grinned again. "And I definitely don't think you're a freak."

Howl grinned back, suddenly the eyes full of sparks again as if he'd just found a new mystery for him to solve. "You're my exception."

. . .

John smiled at the memory, now so vivid before his eyes once more. He heard the soft, crunching steps through the snow behind him long before the familiar baritone started speaking.

"You showed me how to climb up a tree and get down without injuring myself."

John closed his eyes. With his guards down and the shock of the refreshed memory, it had only been a matter of time for Sherlock to work everything out, of course. "I did," he finally said in a quiet voice.

"You... were the one to teach me how to run with maximum effect over short distances so the other children wouldn't get me."

John turned and smiled at Sherlock who now stood only a few steps away. "I only wish it hadn't been for the summer break so they wouldn't all have been away to fancy hotels and I could've taught them some manners instead." He swallowed down the growl which threatened to make its way up his throat as the talk about head wounds resurfaced in his mind. "You were only seven back then."

"And you had just turned twelve," Sherlock answered calmly, crossing the remaining space between them. "Already the sports hero at your school." He grinned mischievously. "And now we have proof."

"For what?"

"That you _were_ once taller than I."

John shook his head, chuckling. "Not difficult at the time. You were so small... and thin as a twig. I could have carried you like a football for hours." Remembering the anger and worry for his young friend, he instinctively reached up to cup Sherlock's cheek. When he finally realised what he was about to do, the detective had long since noticed his intention of course. So John pushed through it anyway and completed the movement, bracing himself for the reaction to come. To his surprise- and relief- Sherlock leaned into the touch.

The detective closed his eyes, humming. "I remember that I wanted you to." Then he looked back at John, wondering about his own words. "Why would I have wanted something like _that_?"

John sighed, letting his hand fall to his side once more. "Because my family was leaving again. The summer was over and my dad finally found a new job in London."

"I wanted you to stay."

"I couldn't." John's heart clenched at the memory of that day. "We were just kids." A crying seven year old, shouting at him at the top of his lungs, running after the car of John's dad, using every trick John had shown him to move even faster.

But at last, Sherlock had given up. He'd stood there in the middle of the street, silently crying, watching the car drive away until John couldn't see him anymore.

He'd tried to contact him by writing a few letters for a couple of weeks afterwards, but he never heard anything from Sherlock again.

Maybe, unconsciously, John had kept on searching over the years.

"You helped me concentrate on one mental process at a time. You had a remarkable talent for that even then." Sherlock smiled sadly now. His eyes flicked back and forth, indicating that he as well was miles away, caught up in the past. Then his friend locked gazes with John again, the corner of Sherlock's mouth quirking up in a suppressed grin. "I thought I'd deleted everything of our summer after you left. Seems I was mistaken. I simply buried it somewhere deep."

"And then I found you again without even knowing." John smiled at the remembered feeling of a déjà-vu upon entering Bart's, the sense of things clicking back into place, but without any idea _why_.

"I never knew your last name. I couldn't possibly recognise you after nearly 30 years when you walked into my lab."

John laughed. "That isn't _your_ lab, you pompous git!"

Sherlock grinned and waved his hand in his typical dismissive gesture. "Ah, minor details." He stepped even closer, standing now well in John's personal space. "And you continued to teach me about those _feelings_ you insist on being vital." He carefully held John's face in his hand, swiping his thump over a cheekbone.

"Hm..." John softly grabbed the side of Sherlock's neck, feeling his friend's pulse quicken and flutter underneath his cold fingertips, giving John the last ounce of braveness he needed as he slowly rose on tiptoes to meet Sherlock's height. "Last lesson, then, genius," he whispered, hovering his lips just above Sherlock's. "I do." He felt Sherlock support himself with a hand on the trunk at John's back, leaning in even further. "And ever will." He took a deep breath, before opening himself up completely. "Love. You," John concluded, locking gazes with his best friend, his partner, his life. Seeing that same energy sparking in Sherlock's eyes from all those decades ago, watching it fixate on _him_.

Sherlock's gaze turned tender. "Yes," he answered.

And then John closed the last millimetres between them. Sherlock's lean muscles tensed under John's touch when their lips met and for the split of a second he feared he'd completely misinterpreted the signs, that all this- the warmth between them, the magnetic pull towards each other- was just in his head. But before John could think about pulling back, Sherlock began to relax. And then their lips started to move against each other. Once. Twice. Softly, slowly, hesitatingly at first.

It took a moment, but then they both finally seemed to realise that the other wouldn't run away, wouldn't brush the situation off with an awkward laugh and the excuse of having made a mistake, caught up in the mood of the memories. And their kiss deepened while their brains had to accept the fact that there wouldn't be any thunder above or grumbling underneath or even tickling inside. Because this was simply how it was _meant to be_. It was the path of their lives opening and closing directly in front of their eyes, the last pieces slotting into place. And _breathing_, breathing without lungs, breathing under water. Sweet and smooth and _easy_. So perfectly right.

And it hurt hidden and locked away places deep inside John, surfacing all those fears and worries, the terror, the heartbreak of the past months, years. The endless search finally ending at last. He felt young like a bloody teenager again and old like he'd lived a thousand lives on the run.

John urged Sherlock even closer to him, his right hand on Sherlock's neck, pulling him in, while his left hand was resting on Sherlock's smaller back. He intensified the pressure of their lips, feeling their warm breaths mingle, the air between them thickening. And for a moment there, John couldn't resist but to simply hold onto him, his impossible crazy friend, just holding, holding, holding. Never wanting to let go again.

Sherlock's hands grabbed John's good shoulder and his waist, fisting into the fabric of his uniform jacket, smiling and simultaneously swallowing down a sob. "John," he gasped into his lips, and his voice sounded as if he were in pain and lost some long carried weight at the same time. John wanted to cause this sound for ages to come.

A small whine escaped him, when he forced himself to loosen the grip on Sherlock's neck, just enough so that he could brush his thumb over his plump lower lip. Sherlock's eyes were closed, his lips slightly parted and swollen from the pressure of their kiss. Sweet breath caressed John's cheek, making him swallow.

Slowly, John leaned in again, sweeping his tongue over the path his thumb had just taken. Kissing the lower lip tenderly, and then taking it between his lips, sucking softly. He followed the motion with lapping at the underside with his tongue experimentally.

And Sherlock _whimpered_.

Turning almost boneless in John's arms for a minute, Sherlock then pressed his body closer still, crowding John against their tree. He could feel Sherlock through his expensive trousers, felt himself answering in kind. It was an eerie calm that swept over John while arousal sparked through his veins. Almost on its own accord his hand slid back up, weaving his fingers through Sherlock's dark curls, holding on.

Angling his head a bit, John let go of Sherlock's lower lip to swipe over the underside of his upper lip with the tip of his tongue. Tempting, teasing, until Sherlock parted his lips further, letting him in, meeting his tongue with his own.

Sherlock moaned when John's hand in his hair tugged, angling their heads further. He caressed John's tongue and coaxed it further into his mouth. When John was only too happy to chase after it and Sherlock caught it in his mouth and sucked, John was sure his legs were only supporting him still out of habit.

He could feel their hearts hammering in unison at a rapid pace as their tongues slid against each other for minutes and minutes, their teeth nibbling at swollen lips, sucking, stroking, licking. Exploring each other's mouths and revelling in the closeness and the sweet, wet taste of the other's lips and tongue.

When they came up for breath at last, they leaned their foreheads against each other, unwilling to step apart just yet. Their soft panting in the cold air was creating thick, white clouds between them when John finally became aware of their surroundings once more.

And noting the state of his partner.

He lifted his head, looking at Sherlock, caressing the sensitive skin at the base of his neck with his thumb.

"Sherlock," he began quietly, "we should get inside."

"Hm?" He sounded a bit dazed.

John smiled softly. "You're shivering."

Sherlock's eyes managed to focus back on John. "I..." his brows furrowed, "what?"

Sniggering lightly, John took his hand and pulled him towards the entrance of the manor. "Maybe I take over for now, shall I? Until you get that big brain of yours back out of stand-by-mode."

Sherlock huffed out an indignant breath and pulled his hand free after a few meters, but followed him anyway. "Don't be absurd. Clearly it's not cold enough to cause severe damage as my nervous system didn't alarm my nukleus parabrachialis of a dangerous situation."

John shook his head in fond exasperation while he kept on leading the way back through the frozen snow world. "Your brainstem was firing off information just fine. You just didn't realise it because your body was concentrating on the pressing topic of _reproduction_." He grinned at the mental image. "Thanks for that, by the way, I'm chuffed that at least your body thinks me in charge for once."

"Shut up," Sherlock sneered, but John could hear the poorly concealed smile in his voice. "I'm sure it wouldn't have killed us if we'd chosen to stay outside for a bit longer."

"Nothing there which we couldn't continue inside," John said softly. "Though I appreciate the romantic thought behind that place, I won't let you come down with the flu for snogging you under our apple tree in the middle of the Holy Night. Not when I just got your body into working order after having sewed you back together like a bloody ragdoll."

For a long time there was only the sound of silent footsteps behind him. Then came Sherlock's voice, almost as quiet as the night surrounding them. "John Watson... you are a revelation."

"I know, you keep telling me that," he laughed.

"I do mean it," Sherlock replied in his usual steadfast baritone again, coming to a halt next to John while they opened the door to the conservatory.

"Yes, you do." With a cold but steady hand at his lower back John carefully guided the detective inside ahead of him, trying to ignore his own still racing heartbeat. "Come on in, Howl, we need hot tea and blankets."

Sherlock turned and raised an incredulous eyebrow at that. "Are you _mother-coddling_ me?"

"That's my job, for I'm still your doctor," John said matter-of-factly.

And as Sherlock set off towards the kitchen, John could have sworn he heard him mumbling, "To me, what are you not?"

XXX


	21. Chapter 21

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**Part 3 – Chapter 6**

.

**Date: December 25****th****, 2013. 0128 hours. **

**Position: Main wing of **_**Holmes Manor**_**, Pensford (51° 22′ 15.6″ N, 2° 32′ 47.76″ W ), Somerset, England. **

.

They had been warming up in the ancient but extremely comfortable drawing room for a while after their walk outside, drinking tea and chatting in the company of the other two family members. John sat in the corner of one of the huge sofas with Sherlock lying across the whole length of it, resting his curly head in John's lap as if it was the most natural thing to do.

Evangeline asked John to share a few of their adventures and so he did, starting with the one about the Aluminium Crutch- his all-time favourite- and then going into the Hounds of Baskerville, because it had a good portion of action and horror in it. While he was talking and occasionally sipping his tea, Sherlock threw in some scathing remarks about how he should leave out all those 'irritating and unimportant details, because our cases really are not one of your awful poems, John' and one or two more or less helpful insights about his deducing process involved at the time. After a few moments, John realised that keeping his right hand gently entwined with Sherlock's curls would reduce the agitation with which the detective illustrated his point and even produce some contented, barely audible humming noises now and then.

Over long, though, the events of the day caught up with them and even Sherlock agreed that it might have a positive effect on his transport system if he got a few hours of sleep. So they retired to Sherlock's old room.

They got ready for bed as usual and now lay close to each other under the large comfy bedding, talking quietly about that shared summer of their childhood. Suddenly Sherlock fell into a coughing fit that went on for a few seconds before he could calm down again.

"Jeez, you're still trembling," John said. Pushing himself up on one elbow, he held a hand to Sherlock's forehead, checking for temperature.

"I'm fine," his patient answered dismissively. "It's just cold."

John couldn't help the smirk, even if this was bordering on cliché. "I might be able to help with that, you know," he mumbled, leaning over Sherlock and softly caressing the thin skin on his forehead with slow kisses.

Sherlock closed his eyes and hummed. "And how... would you do... that?" he asked between soft purring sounds.

Something about the tone registered in one of the parts of John's brain that were now steadily switching over to stand-by mode. He looked down to the man next to him, studying his expression. 'Oh, God,' he thought, as he saw the honest confusion in Sherlock's eyes. "You're not kidding, are you?" John asked in an attempt to grasp the situation.

Sherlock's gaze changed into mild annoyance. "Why would I? Other than producing an external heating device from somewhere nearby or lying directly on top of me- which, in fact, I assume to be quite uncomfortable- I don't see how you could regulate my body heat, John."

John cocked his head to the side, not able to decide if he should worry or smile fondly at this marvel of a man. "Sherlock, was what Mycroft said about you and sex true?"

Sherlock scoffed. "Don't be absurd, John. I know perfectly well what sex is and how it works. And it certainly doesn't _alarm_ me."

"Yeah, but did you _have_ sex before?"

"Why should I?" Sherlock answered nonplussed, stretching out next to John's bare torso like a cat and fixing him with an incredulous stare. "I detest being close to people and spending time with them apart from the absolute necessary. Losing control over one's own body and mind in the presence of another person and in such a messy way is certainly one of the least desirable things I can think of. Everything I need to know concerning the topic I was perfectly capable of gathering through observation and extensive research."

"So you don't want sex with me, then?" John couldn't help but feel slightly disappointed.

But if Sherlock didn't want to get intimate than who was John to push him? This, _them_, was about love, about finally feeling complete, about building a home- _their_ home. If sex wasn't part of the equation then John would deal with it. Hell, a few hours earlier he would have never thought that Sherlock had feelings for him which went beyond friendship. And he apparently was even completely alright with kissing. This, all of this, was a perfect miracle already.

John was pleasantly surprised, though, when Sherlock carefully pulled him down to give him a chaste but soft kiss to the lips. "You've proven almost every single one of my social priorities wrong so far," Sherlock stated matter-of-factly. "It would be only logical to at least run an experiment on the topic before dismissing it."

John held his friend's cheek gently. "Sherlock, we don't have to. It's all fine, remember? I don't care that you're a guy, because I love you for being _you_, not just your transport, right? And as long as you can live with me getting a boner from time to time when we kiss, we can just leave it at that."

"I don't _share_, John. I have a very addictive personality."

"Well, I'm yours since ages already, you possessive git," John said fondly, wondering what Sherlock was heading at.

"You won't be happy without sex. You're going to search for it somewhere else, just as you did before I left."

"No," John replied, determined. "Sherlock, no." He searched his gaze and held it, willing him to understand this vital point. "We weren't as close then as we are now. We weren't a _couple_. Dating for me was the normal thing to do, but even that I stopped after Jeanette. Because I realised that it would _always_ be you."

Sherlock cocked his head in wonderment. "You didn't know that I love you at the time."

John swallowed past the lump in his throat at hearing those words for the first time. Even in an indirect context, they still sent his heart stumbling. "I ... no. I didn't know that."

"Then why would you have wanted to be exclusive without getting anything in return?"

"Because it felt wrong to be with someone else when all I could think about was you. It wasn't fair to them and it wasn't fair to the both of us. You and me, Sherlock. You. And me. That's all I need. It's more than I hoped for already. If you want me, you'll have me. If you don't-" He shrugged, "as long as we're together, it's all fine by me."

The detective seemed to process that for a moment, lifting his hand and splaying it over John's breast, deep in thought. His thumb started to slowly caress the skin underneath. John's hand wandered down from Sherlock's cheek to gently hold his shoulder, patiently waiting for him to tell his decision, but keeping close contact. Needing to feel them being together in this.

"You will stay with me no matter the consequences," Sherlock half-asked in a quiet voice.

"Yes. As long as you want me to."

"And you're attracted to me."

"I... yes, but Sher-"

"- Shh, John, I'm thinking." He furrowed his brow, studying his hand still lying over John's heart. "You want to have sex with me."

"Sherlock-"

"- Just answer the question, John. ... Please."

John swallowed again, closing his eyes, opening them- feeling Sherlock's hand on his skin, seeing the intense focus and the spark in those beautiful eyes fixed on him... "God, yes."

Sherlock's eyes lit up. "Then I conclude that conducting this experiment will serve the situation at hand best."

"What?"

"You can have sex with me and I'll get the perfect opportunity to test my theory. Under the premise that I cannot lose you, which you guaranteed, there won't be any disadvantages or drawbacks possible to occur in the aftermath."

John leaned in closer, stealing another sweet kiss. "You have a theory about this?"

Sherlock hummed appreciatively. "Of course I do, John."

John nibbled at Sherlock's lower lip, and then teased the slightly open mouth with his tongue, just barely slipping in and out, until he coaxed a small moan out of his best friend. "And what is that theory about, then?"

Sherlock slid his hand up and around John's neck, pulling him ever closer. "That you are my exception."

John kissed him deeply at that, chasing his tongue into Sherlock's mouth- and oh... that _mouth_. The sweetest breath, hot and gasping at John's open, wet lips. Sherlock licked at them, took them between his teeth and bit down, stopping just before causing pain. And John moaned against that tempting wet tongue as their kiss deepened, loving the feel of the slick slide against sensitive, soft flesh and sharp teeth.

Sherlock's hands travelled down from John's neck, mapping the usually kept hidden skin at his bare back, gripping the muscles over his shoulder blades tightly, while their tongues danced hungrily against each other, arousal beginning to buzz across every nerve ending.

John kissed a wet path down Sherlock's impossibly long throat, paying extra attention to every little mole he came across. The one at his jaw. The one just above the hem of his shirt. When he lavished the skin just under his Adam's apple, Sherlock pressed the back of his head into the pillow and made such a deep, guttural noise of pleasure that it went through John like an electric wave.

"Oh, God... Sherlock..." he moaned between shallow breaths, lifting his head to drink in the sight of Sherlock splayed out beneath him, positively dishevelled and pupils blown wide. All those times his thoughts had guiltily wandered into the dangerous fantasies of him and Sherlock together- and now that dream was practically splayed out underneath him like this, waiting for him to lead on._ Christ. _"Are there enough androgens in your blood already to tell you that this is possibly the most beautiful sight I've ever seen?" John knew perfectly well that this experiment was a risk for both of them- should Sherlock decide to stick to his abstinence after all then John would need to work hard on getting his control over his hormones back, probably including loads of cold showers. But he could do it. And he would.

"Is there enough blood in your nether regions already that I could confess about you probably being right concerning my body temperature?" Sherlock countered.

John gently bit into Sherlock's jaw once more, ravelling in the unrestrained sounds of lust it evoked.

"Hmm... definitely," he rasped, kissing Sherlock's neck while slowly sliding his left hand down his lover's torso towards the hem of his sleeping shirt, making his intention clear to give Sherlock the opportunity to stop him.

When John's hand slipped underneath the thin fabric unstopped, splaying out over Sherlock's belly and gently pressing down while sucking at his pulse point, Sherlock's groin helplessly bucked forward. "Oh... John!" Sherlock gasped, making John impossibly harder. It felt good, so _good_, to feel this amazing energy running through his veins. Sherlock dug his fingers ever deeper into the skin on John's back, stimulating nerves he didn't remember having at all.

Sherlock was still lying on his back and John slid his left leg between both of Sherlock's, pressing his erection into the detective's thigh, making them both groan at the contact. John dove in for another deep kiss, caressing Sherlock's tongue and sucking it into his mouth while he tentatively let his hand wander higher underneath the shirt.

He found a nipple and slowly rolled it between his thumb and forefinger, making it harden under his touch, the darker skin rising towards more and more pressure. Sherlock let go of John's back for a moment, only to pull his shirt up and off, forcing a frustrated noise out of them both when they had to separate to pull the offensive fabric over Sherlock's head.

They came back together only a few seconds later, eager to regain the contact, their bare chests sliding against each other for the first time-

And it was like catching fire.

John grabbed Sherlock's waist and rolled them over, pulling his lover on top of him. When Sherlock smiled at him wickedly, his dark eyes burning with unknown desire and mischief, John had barely time to register Sherlock scooting down on him before he felt a hot tongue lick a broad, slick stripe over his right nipple. John threw his head back, sinking his hands into the sheets above it in order to hold back on the urge to press Sherlock's unruly mop of hair further down.

Sherlock took the wet nipple into his mouth, sucking at it. He softly bit down, pulling it upwards between his teeth, further, further, only stopping at the verge of pain. He released it, licked it again. Cataloguing John's reactions, every gasp, every moan.

Sherlock then paid the same close attention to the other nipple while massaging the first one between his fingers and leaving John positively _panting_ underneath him, his hips moving in an unconscious rhythm and a desire for more friction.

Sherlock moved upwards just as John thought he'd have to go crazy under his lover's curious ministrations. Sherlock kissed every inch of bare heated skin on his way towards John's shoulder and then halted, his lips hovering barely an inch above the scar, waiting for permission. John loosened his left hand from his death grip on the sheets and softy twined his fingers with Sherlock's curls once more, wordlessly inviting him to go past that invisible barrier between him and the world around him.

And Sherlock moved in with enthusiasm.

Sending delicate shivers directly down to John's cock, Sherlock hummed excitedly and lapped at the numb skin at the centre of the old entrance wound. He nipped and sucked at the sensitive, uneven fringe while John held his lover's head close to his weakest spot, revelling in the intimacy of their connection.

"Does this hurt?" Sherlock asked, biting down experimentally at a corner of the frayed star before pressing his nose into the skin and breathing him in deeply.

"No," John gasped, "feels amazing..."

"Hmm..." Sherlock hummed again, licking at the soft tissue one more time and then coming up for another kiss.

It started out slow and sweet but soon grew into a hot and passionate connection that made them both wanting to get closer, closer, closer, oh, _Jesus Christ_, this was good. Their tongues mingled, massaged, devoured each other's mouths. Desperately trying to keep that basic, human, worldly link they'd lost far too often by now.

The next minute John found himself on top again, looking down at a smirking genius.

"Oh, you're a fast learner," John purred as he licked at Sherlock's lips, paying full attention to their corners now.

Sherlock slid his hands down John's lower back, gripping his arse and pulling him down, pressing their groins together. John, who had just been nipping at Sherlock's throat, bit down hard, making his lover buck and their erections slide together through the layers of fabric surrounding them still. John groaned heatedly and rocked his hips, circling them in an almost languid rhythm, feeling Sherlock's swollen cock trapped between their moving bodies.

"... John!"

"Was that a good 'John' or a bad 'John'?" he panted smirking.

"That was a 'don't you dare stop that-John'," Sherlock answered in an attempt to sound irritated, but his pulse under John's lips was stuttering wildly, his hips bucking helplessly.

John pushed himself up on both elbows, so that the centre of his body was now lying lower, and used the new angle to press his groin further down to Sherlock's, keeping up that circling motion. He felt hot, wet spots of pre-come forming on the fabric of their pants and John knew he needed more, wanted to lose himself in this man, needed to show him what could lie ahead for them, and he was kissing him hot and deep until they both needed to come up for gasps of air.

When he carefully lifted himself off his lover and to the side, Sherlock's protesting groan sent another jolt to John's cock. Taking a somewhat calming breath, he held himself up on his right elbow, settling his left hand carefully over the waistband of Sherlock's pyjama bottoms.

He kissed him softly, searching his eyes.

Taking out a bit of the rush, needing to ground the younger man and let him focus just enough to be able to make a conscious decision not purely based on the urge of hormones alone. Sherlock was not used to these emotions and passionate intimacy and it would have been so easy, even natural, to take away his mind's control completely, making him surrender and give himself over completely to John's guidance.

But this was important, this was _Sherlock_. And John needed to let him set the pace, even if it probably would kill his pulsing, aching cock if he'd had to stop right now.

Sherlock held his gaze, eyes wide but filled with lust and determination.

"Okay?" John asked quietly.

Sherlock nodded hesitatingly. "Yes."

John kissed him, equal parts relieved and nervous. He slid his hand under the waistband and slowly pulled it down, inch by inch, careful to lift the fabric up over the dark, glistening head of Sherlock's cock first to prevent it from getting caught.

He licked and sucked a path down Sherlock's chest and across his abdomen, dipping his tongue into his bellybutton and Sherlock's hips bucked again, rubbing the tip of his cock up John's stretched throat in the process, sliding over his Adam's apple, and making them both moan as John fucked Sherlock's navel with the tip of his tongue.

Sherlock dug both hands into John's scalp, pressing him down harder and John hummed in lust, feeling goose bumps rise on Sherlock's fiery skin in answer.

John then sat up and swiftly untangled Sherlock's long legs from his pants, casting the removed item to the side. He didn't lose time with shedding his own bottoms as well and then knelt at Sherlock's legs, taking a moment to just look at his genius, his mystery, outstretched before him. Strong, lean legs slightly spread apart, muscles straining, chest heaving up and down with heavy panting, hands fisted into the blanket at his sides, and a long, thin, perfect cock rising from his clean-shaven groin, a drop of pre-come leaking from its swollen tip.

"God, you're beautiful..." John heard himself whisper in awe.

Slowly he moved up Sherlock's body once more, not touching it, just hovering above him, holding himself up on knees and hands and leaned over Sherlock's naked body to kiss him again. Even like this it was as if he could feel the heat radiating from Sherlock's body. Sherlock arched up under him, instinctively searching for friction, his tongue diving deeper into John's mouth.

John then lowered himself, slowly, so achingly slowly, until he could press their naked bodies together at last.

And both men gasped at the contact.

"John..."

"God, yes!" John sighed, pulling Sherlock in, kissing him deeply and revelling in the soft slide of skin on skin, their leaking cocks trapped close together, setting every nerve ending on edge at their touch.

He marvelled at being this close to his mad genius, feeling Sherlock's every breath deep inside his mouth, his chest. Rocking with his stuttering pulse, hammering their connection into every pore. The air smelled of lust, of two bodies colliding in sweet passion, making the world stop around them and ever wanting, needing _more_.

John rolled them to the side to relieve his left shoulder of the strain, never breaking their kiss.

Sherlock gripped John's now bare arse, pressing their groins further against each other in their rocking motion, their cocks slick with pre-come, sliding together in hot unison.

John licked a broad wet stripe across his palm and then reached between them, taking both of them in his hand while Sherlock held their bodies close. "Oh, jeez, _Sher_... Sherlock..." John panted between kisses, feeling the hard yet velvet flesh pulse underneath his fingers as he set a steady pace and Sherlock suddenly broke the kiss, throwing his head back, gasping loudly.

"John...aah..." he moaned deep inside his throat, the noise bitten off as another gasp followed suit. Sherlock's nails dug almost painfully deep into John's muscles at his shoulder and arse as John's thumb swiped over the wet glans, smearing clear pre-come over the sensitive skin. Sherlock was sweating, quickly losing his rhythm, his hips stuttering wildly.

John managed to get his second hand between them as well, carefully massaging Sherlock's balls which already pulled up tight. John enjoyed the slide of his thump over the fragile dry skin, teasingly playing with the small nuts inside, making his lover nearly scream with desire with every tentative pull and squeeze. Wanting to _taste_ but controlling the urge for now. He needed to make sure that Sherlock wouldn't be overwhelmed, that he kept Sherlock in control of what was happening. He needed to make this last.

Sherlock was close, so very close, his skin was burning, his breath catching, pulse jumping. John could feel his heart hammering a stampede in his chest.

"John!" he panted helplessly, fighting his ever dominant mind for release.

John's rhythm stumbled as he, too, got closer and impossibly _closer_, their open mouths resting loosely against each other now, too far gone in their lust to keep up a steady motion, breathing hot air into the other's lungs. Their wet cocks pressed tightly together underneath John's hot pumping grip.

"Let go..." John panted soothingly against his lover's swollen lips.

"_John_..." Sherlock's eyes flew open, searching John's gaze. Urging him to understand with pupils dilated to absolute blackness, wordlessly begging him to help, to make it stop.

"I've got you, Sherlock," John pressed their foreheads together. "You're safe. I love you. Let go..."

"Oh... _God_... John!"

And then he felt Sherlock finally giving himself over and John tucked at his lover's balls and gripped the base of his hot, leaking cock tightly. Squeezing the hard flesh and watching on as Sherlock bit down on John's shoulder, muffling his cry as he came forcefully, shooting a dozen long, pulsing thrusts of thick semen out between John's trembling fingers, whimpering between his teeth closed around John's burning flesh.

The sight alone was nearly enough to push John over the edge after his lover.

And then Sherlock's hand wandered over John's bucking arse and between his cheeks and he pressed down just right behind his balls and John saw his vision plunging into darkness, felt his breath stutter and then he was coming and coming and coming, oh God, yes,_ yes_, with Sherlock's name on his lips, moaning, groaning, coating their stomachs and chests with hot, white come, feeling the slick fluid smear his skin.

And he wouldn't be able to stop the vibrations in his groin if he wanted to. He kept bucking in aftershocks, bucking, trembling. Bucking. Pulsing. ... Bucking. Until even the last pulse of come was spent and cooling in his navel.

And he had a ringing in his ears which he couldn't bring himself to care about.

And then John dipped over into oblivion and for a minute there was sweet nothingness... while he tried to catch his breath... and get his senses back online.

Jesus _Christ_. When had he last come like that?

After a moment, he was slowly becoming aware of his surroundings once more, as he could feel Sherlock licking soothingly at the mark on John's shoulder. Sherlock examined it and, apparently relieved by his findings, let himself fall back into the cushions, sighing softly, equally spent.

John took another few deep breaths and waited until he felt capable of walking without toppling over. He then got up and went into the bathroom to clean up the worst and grab a wet towel.

Turning on the cool white-tiled floor, he risked a look into the mirror and couldn't help but smile tiredly at his reflection: He looked so thoroughly shagged and ridiculously happy that he almost couldn't believe this was actually his reality. His shoulder would bruise just nicely, though.

Upon returning, he found Sherlock surprisingly still awake and seemingly lost rather deep in thought, lying in the exact same position John had left him in a few minutes prior. Worried, John climbed back into bed and handed the towel to Sherlock, who took it and wordlessly wiped himself clean. Meanwhile, John busied himself with taking care of the sheets and then got the blanket back on top of them.

John lay back down and scooted close to Sherlock–

When he noticed that the detective was trembling again.

John reached out, carefully twining his hand into the dark curls. "You okay?" he asked quietly.

Maybe this experiment had been a failure in his books after all.

Sherlock looked at him with eyes big and tender, leaning into his touch. "I... did I hurt you?"

Relieved that Sherlock spoke after all, that he hadn't retreated to his Mind Palace, John shrugged. "I'm fine. Nothing that won't heal quickly. What about you, though?"

"You didn't hurt me," Sherlock answered, apparently wondering at the question.

"What is it, then?" John queried, trying to conceal the worry in his voice. "Can you hear and see properly? Any tingling in your arms or legs? Pain in your chest?" God only knew how long it had been for Sherlock's body since it last had to deal with the force of an orgasm- and this one had been pretty fierce on top of that.

Sherlock shook his head, looking perplexed. "It all stopped, John."

John instantly pushed himself up on his arm, feeling for Sherlock's pulse- ... which seemed to be at a normal rate, thank God. So he certainly wasn't panicking over having lost all feeling in his extremities. But then... "What did?"

"The voices, John. The thoughts. My _mind_! It went perfectly still. Quiet." He held his gaze. "You told me to let go, to trust you, and I did. And then it was _quiet_."

John took a steadying breath. "So nothing feels wrong with your body?"

"No. Well. Apart from feeling like having chased after a fugitive for approximately 48 minutes and solving three cases in a row."

John smiled at that, finally feeling reassured enough to talk about Sherlock's original train of thought. "So, is that a good quiet in your head, then? You look rather alarmed, to be honest."

Sherlock shook himself slightly. "Yes. No... Yes. I don't know," he sounded frustrated. "I never experienced something like this outside of a 7 percent-solution before. It was good while it lasted... now I feel just..." he furrowed his brow, "... content."

John sighed in great relief. "Oh, good. That's good. I was afraid you'd say 'hollow'."

"Why?"

"Because that would have meant that you think this a mistake," John said, still a bit unsure about how this conversation would end.

Probably deducing this, Sherlock pulled him down and kissed him softly, leisurely, yet passionately on the lips. Upon releasing John he smiled, leaning their foreheads together. "Don't be absurd, John," he stated quietly. "I told you: You're my exception."

John chuckled happily. "Well, I'm very glad I am." He lay back down, lifting his arm for Sherlock to scoot closer, resting his head on John's chest where it met his shoulder.

"You're saying that now- wait until I found out that sleeping with you might become my new addiction," Sherlock yawned. "I confess the aftermath of sex is far more pleasant than that of cocaine."

"Always happy to be of help," John laughed, kissing Sherlock's forehead, already feeling himself drift off to blissful sleep.

"_Only you, John,"_ he heard his dream whisper distantly.

XXX


	22. Chapter 22

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**Part 3 – Chapter 7**

.

**Date: December 25****th****, 2013. 0427 hours.**

**Position: Main wing of **_**Holmes Manor**_**, Pensford (51° 22′ 15.6″ N, 2° 32′ 47.76″ W** **), Somerset, England.**

.

When John woke up next, it was still dark outside and he concluded that he'd only had a few hours of sleep so far- it seemed as if he hadn't moved at all since last he remembered and was still finding himself lying flat on his back. Even Sherlock with his usual tossing and turning sleepy self had barely changed his position. Currently, John had the mop of curly dark hair tucked under his chin and the attached- and very naked- genius was lying on his left side next to John with half of his gorgeous body sprawled on top of him possessively.

John couldn't resist the rather goofy smile as he deeply inhaled the scent of his friend's hair, hugging him even closer and causing Sherlock to grumble in his sleep, burying his nose in John's neck in the process.

He felt a soft kiss being pressed to his pulse point.

"Hmm..." John heard himself humming contently. "Merry Christmas, love."

"And a merry Christmas to you," came the sleepy reply. "Are you already done with the night?"

"... I guess I could use another few hours. What about you?"

"Hm."

"Better try and rest for a bit as well, then. I get a feeling it might become a busy day," John gave the forehead next to his jaw a kiss.

"Hmm..." Sherlock mumbled drowsily. It was the last he heard from his friend before John felt himself sinking under once more.

.

His wristwatch on the bedside table stated the time to be 6:30am. It was still dark outside but John could see enough to realise that he was alone. Feeling the cool sheets on the right side of the bed, he guessed that Sherlock had been gone for quite some time already. John sank back down onto the mattress, trying to figure out what to do now. The house didn't seem to be awake yet, so he probably could try to go back to sleep, but he wasn't all that tired anymore and his leg demanded some exercise.

Sighing, John got up and quickly hurried through his morning routine, putting on his dark jeans, a shirt, and beige jumper on top and then made his way downstairs as quietly as he could.

He made himself a cup of tea in the deserted kitchen and slowly walked over to the big windows of the conservatory. There he leaned against one of the window frames, sipping his cuppa and watching the frozen landscape outside. It had snowed sometime in the recent hours and everything was coated in a fresh layer of untouched white fluff. It looked beautiful, almost too cliché. The narrow hedgerows aligning the pathways around the house lit up and sparkling with hundreds of small white fairy lights between the frozen branches. He could even see their apple tree from where he stood.

As he looked on, deep in thought about everything that had happened in the last 24 hours, a softly spoken but well known voice came up behind him. "Nightmare?"

John shook his head slowly, never taking his eyes off the scenery before him. "No. I think it was the quiet. I never thought I'd be witnessing such calm or... peace again." It had been a while since he last felt this safe and comfortable with himself and his surroundings.

There was a long pause in which neither of them spoke.

John saw Sherlock's reflection in the windowpane, saw him hesitate, looking almost sad. When he finally spoke it was barely more than a hushed whisper. "I didn't want to leave."

"I know," John replied, equally quiet. It was of no difference if Sherlock was speaking of The Fall or their shared bed upstairs. Maybe both.

"I mean it."

"I know, Sherlock," he turned towards him. Sherlock was fully dressed in his usual black suit trousers and a dark blue shirt, but as he stood there in the early light of Christmas morning he looked utterly naked. John held out a hand, "... Come here."

Sherlock stepped closer, coming to a halt in front of John and carefully taking his hand as if unsure if this was the correct answer to the gesture. John's heart clenched.

He squeezed Sherlock's hand in reassurance, pulling him closer and rested their foreheads together. "I know who you are and how you are," John said in a soft but steady tone. "And I'll never want you to change anything of that, alright? Never. This might be a new side to our relationship, but it won't change the important parts of us. I fell for you long before last night," he lifted his head and grinned at him mischievously. "And I'm rather planning to stay by your side until nights long have ceased to exist."

Sherlock snorted half-heartedly at that. "Poetry again, John?"

John nodded, completely serious. "Sometimes one needs a bit of poetry. Takes the sting out of difficult situations."

They fell silent. Each searching the other's eyes in the hopes of some advice at how to proceed, trying to figure their own thoughts out at the same time.

Sherlock, naturally, got his voice back first. "I... thought you would have second thoughts about this."

John squeezed his hand once more, holding his gaze. "Did you hope that I would?"

"No." There was no hesitation in his voice this time.

John couldn't have hidden his answering smile if he'd wanted to. "Well, then we might call this some pretty good result now, don't we, Mr Holmes." He pulled Sherlock towards him for a languid, sweet kiss to the plush lips. When it ended, they only parted enough to breathe properly with their lips and noses still touching, their eyes closed against the onslaught of emotions.

"Hmm... definitely, Captain," a playful smile crept into Sherlock's voice, his hands holding onto John tightly.

John laughed at that, utterly content from head to toe. Bliss. "Stop calling me that, you git."

.

About half an hour later the rest of the manor began to rise and John and Sherlock made their way back to the kitchen. Upon arriving they were greeted by Evangeline (who took one look and then hugged both of them with a happy twinkle in her teary eyes) and Mycroft (who was engrossed in yesterday's newspaper and a huge pile of freshly baked waffles). The room smelled heavenly of hot coffee with cinnamon and scones.

They settled around the huge oak table and talked about everything and nothing, John and Evangeline discussing possible restoration work on the antique shed of the car park, and Sherlock and Mycroft feigning ignorance at everything despite their respective Blackberries and occasionally bickering at each other, trying to poke imaginary holes in the other's emotional suit.

John had just pushed his plate with a fresh scone over to Sherlock who absentmindedly began picking at it, when Mycroft's phone rang.

"Excuse me," he mumbled and attempted to make his way out of the room but stopped dead in his tracks the moment he took the call. Everyone looked up and over to him where he stood as still as a statue, his back ramrod straight, the shoulders tensing up more by the second.

"What is it?" Sherlock demanded to know, pushing his chair back loudly, standing.

John's stomach turned. This wasn't good. This was the feeling of a storm coming.

Mycroft turned and briskly walked back to the table, laying his phone down in the centre of it. "I'm with my family right now, Colonel. I think you might want to repeat to them what you told me just now."

Then Colonel Rutherford's rough voice filled the peaceful kitchen. "Captain Watson."

John forced his wildly running thoughts to focus on one straight line for now. When he answered, his outer shell was calm and concentrated. "I'm here, Sir." He could feel Sherlock's attention shift completely towards him, breathing in every bit of information he could get.

"Captain, we've encountered quite some nasty trouble in our patch concerning dishonourably discharged Colonel S. Moran," Evangeline gasped as John felt his hands forming into fists. Sherlock, still standing, leaned over the table and glowered at the phone.

"What do you mean by that?" he urged.

"After Captain Watson's findings concerning the massacre in last April, Damascus, Homs and Talil were ordered to watch out for anything connected to staged warfare and Moran's possible activities in the region as of late."

"Ordered by whom?" Sherlock asked in a brisk manner.

Mycroft fixated him, looking down his nose. "That would have been my agents, Sherlock."

John laid a hand on Sherlock's lower back, trying to ground him. "Stop it, you two. You can tear each other's throats out later. For now, we probably need to hear this."

Rutherford cleared his throat but otherwise ignored the interruption. "Two days ago, we received an anonymous tip by some locals about one recently abandoned facility that looked like some sort of makeshift lab outside of Rabah."

"Jesus," John breathed.

"Exactly my thoughts, Captain."

He could feel everyone's gaze fixate on him.

"John?" Mycroft asked.

John looked up. "Rabah is a village in the middle of a mountain chain called Jebel el Ansariye in Syria's west. Meaning lots of rain, lots of steep woods and rocky steppe terrain, which makes marching over long distances hell but necessary because- for the same reasons- we don't have any base camps out there."

"This is basically the reason for my call, Captain," Rutherford continued. "There were at least one dozen civilian casualties rescued from the facility and brought to a field hospital in Taldou. Recent developments in that area practically flooded the small hospital with patients suffering from shrapnel wounds, starvation and extensive burns- dying like flies. We are obligated to assist the investigating teams from Homs in Rabah and take care of the hospital to ensure the surviving casualties are safely transported to the nearest refugee camps. But, for the love of God, we don't have nearly enough qualified personnel for all of this. Especially now that most of the local doctors and nurses have left the country with their families," John closed his eyes, knowing what would follow through the speaker of the phone- only to open them again in surprise when he felt Evangeline's small hand grip his tightly on the tabletop. She was trembling. "I would like to call in a personal favour, Captain."

"No," Sherlock growled.

"Mr Holmes, I'm-"

"I said _no_. He's not going. He fought enough for Queen and Country as it is. His presence is vital _here_. You can't force him."

"Mr Holmes, I would not attempt anything like that."

"Well, I'd like to see you try," Sherlock snarled back.

"Sherlock," John said quietly. Everyone turned towards him- Mycroft calculating, Evangeline worried and Sherlock with a determination in his eyes that sent shivers down John's spine. John addressed the phone again, "Colonel, could you give us a few minutes for consideration, Sir?"

"Of course, Captain. I'll call back in half an hour."

"Thank you, Sir."

With that the line went dead and silence fell over the room.

John wordlessly stood and walked out, Sherlock following him immediately, already foaming with rage. The door banged loudly behind them as John reached the entrance hall. They grabbed their coats in passing and went out, marching through the fresh snow and frost.

They had barely arrived at their tree before Sherlock spoke, "I will go with you."

God, _please_, he didn't hear that right.

"You what?" John's voice caught in his throat, croaking in shock.

"You will feel the need to go back to Syria out of some misguided moral obligations, because you just can't sit by when someone needs help that you could provide," Sherlock explained reasonably. "You would be tormented by even more nightmares if you'd decline and stay here- and I damn Mycroft for playing you like that." His voice was almost turning into some form of hissing noise.

"Yes. Yes to all of that," John stated calmly. "But you can't honestly expect me to be such a selfish bastard and risk your life like that, Sherlock."

"Then don't force me to stay behind." His eyes had a fierce glow to them now.

"Sherlock-"

"There will be_ evidence_, John. In the lab. Do you honestly believe those incompetent idiots of MI6 to put a decent analysis together, find everything of importance? Moran will get away._ Again_. He will continue to kill and he will threaten you, _us_," Sherlock interrupted him. "You will have enough to do with taking care of those patients. You need me there."

"You can't seriously believe that I'd let you wander off through the mountains on your own to investigate one of Moran's possible bases in the middle of nowhere!"

"Therefore, you will be with me. Be my shield, John. We can do this together. We have to catch Moran now or he'll hunt us for years," Sherlock pressed.

Oh, God. This was madness.

This was a nightmare on its own, but Sherlock did have a point. John wouldn't be able to live with the knowledge of letting his team, his country, and those poor victims down if he had the means to help. Sherlock needed to see the actual crime scene in question in order to finally get to Moran. If Moran got his way then neither of them would be truly safe in the future. And as much as John hated the thought of letting Sherlock go into an active warzone, he knew the genius detective was very assertive and could stand his ground in most situations. John would have to do double shifts in order to do his job _and_ keep Sherlock safe and sound, but the madman was right- they couldn't part. Not again. Never again. And if, God forbid, something should happen to Sherlock, then John would still be in a warzone and this time his trigger finger wouldn't hesitate to let him follow.

"You said we were in this together," Sherlock said quietly, softly. He stepped closer and held John's face in his hands, his thumbs caressing his cheeks.

John closed his eyes, making his decision. Because, however much Sherlock argued and rampaged, he knew and accepted that this was John's call. "We are," John whispered, pulling Sherlock towards him for a small, sad kiss on the lips. Just letting them rest against each other, really. Feeling their connection, this helpless closeness. "... Alright," John finally said. "Alright, okay. Yes. Let's do this together."

**XXX End of Part 3 XXX To be continued XXX**

**Author's note:** Yay, and that's a wrap on Part 3! Thank you all so much for reading this far and commenting and leaving kudos and creating bookmarks. It's exactly that kind of motivation I need to throw myself full force into the writing of Part 4, which will be the last instalment of A Telling Touch. I will take a short break from updating chapters until around the 30th of this month and then publish one new chapter every few hours to be able to finish this until New Year's Day. Sounds slightly crazy? Well, yes. I am slightly crazy. But the nice kind of crazy I assure you. *laughs madly and runs out of the room*

Anyway, I would love to see you all in a few days time, then. Yes? Yes.

So far,

Miyako X


	23. Part 4- Chapter 1

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**Author's note:** Hey, mates! Okay, let's start with the last instalment of A Telling Touch, then, shall we? Here comes the first chapter of today...

.

**Part 4: The War Throughout**

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"_Born divided_

_Found but parted_

_Met again to lose once more_

_Scattered home and buried soul_

_Revived and flying_

_Searching, fighting_

_Together at last_

_To stay."_

_- N. Gerdes_

.

**Chapter 1**

.

**Date: December 26****th****, 2013. 1500 hours.**

**Position: Homs bastion (34° 44****′**** 0****″****N, 36° 43****′**** 0****″****E****)****, Homs province, Syria.**

.

Only about half a day after their conversation in the frozen garden of Holmes Manor near sleepy Bristol, John and Sherlock were boarding a chopper waiting for them on the airstrip of cool, sandy Homs. Winter had settled over Syria as well, even though the temperatures wouldn't sink below 10°C for now. A slight rain was blowing across the asphalt field as John pulled Sherlock into the lifting chopper with one strong tug. They'd sent a Westland Lynx to pick them up. And as for nearly all battlefield helicopters this one as well operated with doors wide open next to its heavy weaponry to make it easier for combating soldiers to jump in and out quickly and to have extra door gunners available at every moment.

"Grab onto something and hold on!" John called over the noise of the wind and motors. "And don't lean out- we'll have to make a few harsh turns on our way!"

Sherlock nodded and off they went. Mycroft had arranged for special clearance and a uniform for Sherlock so that he would be allowed to access the base camp and other military facilities. Officially, he was just another soldier brought in on short notice. Concerning John's team and Colonel Rutherford, Sherlock was here as an assistant to the MI6 in order to investigate the crimes of Sebastian Moran. Basically, though, he was protected non-military personnel for this tour.

The endless Syrian olive and cotton fields embedded in the vast steppe flew by beneath them as they made their way towards Talil base camp. They would meet up with John's team and some other medical staff, local and foreign doctors and nurses alike, who had been brought in from Homs and Damascus to accompany their troop through the difficult terrain of the beginning mountain chain in order to get the much needed help to the growing numbers of civilian casualties there.

The evening was quiet with only a few muffled sounds of fighting in the distance. Their chopper stayed undisturbed on its way across the small, mostly deserted villages and landed some minutes later at their destination.

John jumped out and pulled their army backpack down as he waited for Sherlock to join him. "Okay, let's get us ordered to action, then."

He turned and led the way to the barracks and on towards the commanding base where he leaned their luggage next to the door and knocked, Sherlock waiting beside him.

"Enter!" came the gruff voice from inside.

They entered and John saluted.

"At ease, Captain," Colonel Rutherford said and stood, holding out his hand in greeting. "Thanks for helping out. I know this is probably not the best way of spending Boxing Day."

John stepped forward and shook it in a firm grip. "We appreciate your consent to our rather unusual plan, Sir."

Rutherford nodded and then shook hands with Sherlock as well, who had been analysing his surroundings from the moment they'd landed in camp, holding himself in a controlled, straight posture, his eyes scanning back and forth, cataloguing.

"Mr Holmes. Thank you for your cooperation." Rutherford offered a somewhat stiff smile.

Sherlock gritted his teeth in the most blatant fake smile John had ever seen on him. "Yes, and so you should," he deadpanned.

John cleared his throat pointedly. Sherlock scoffed but pulled his figurative claws back in.

Rutherford watched their quick exchange with a mixed expression on his face, before he got back to business. "Team 97 Delta is ready and waiting for you, Captain. Sergeant Russ has already been briefed. You're heading out first thing in the morning. You've got quite a few civilians with you- four doctors and seven nurses who agreed to accompany the troop to Rabah field hospital. You won't be able to move very fast and the main road is blocked. For now, ETA is between 1100 and 1200 the same day. You'll be travelling with three Panthers and one Husky. We can't spare more, so you'll have to make room for all the equipment somehow. No emergency rations." He swallowed, looking regretful. "I'm sorry, Captain. We've gotten quite jumped with this as well."

John nodded. "We'll make do, Sir." He took the offered SIG Sauer and an ammo clip from the Colonel, loaded it and then handed the gun grip first to Sherlock.

"Technically, you're a civilian," John explained upon seeing Sherlock raising his brows quizzically. "So we can't give you a rifle or other heavy weaponry. I'll be by your side twenty-four-seven but in case something goes wrong you have to be able to defend yourself."

Sherlock took the gun from him. "Alright."

.

Soon after, they were walking back outside and into the mild Syrian winter. They hadn't gotten very far, though, when a familiar voice called out to John. Turning, he saw Mary Morstan running towards them and the next moment she threw herself into John's arms, surprising him with her enthusiasm. He caught her and whirled her around happily. Grinning as he then held her cheeks in his cold hands, giving her forehead a quick kiss. "Blimey, I missed you."

Mary laughed, taking a step back and mustering him. "John, good _God_. What happened? You look _happy_!"

John smiled, ordering himself to ignore the resurfacing memory of the living shell he'd been when they'd last seen each other.

Mary's gaze turned into a mischievous smirk. "You found someone, haven't you?" She winked at him. "Come on, you can tell me!"

John chuckled. "Yeah, I found someone, alright," he answered, now smirking as well and feeling like a damn Cheshire cat. At her curious expression he looked pointedly behind her, where Sherlock was still standing without making a noise, assessing, observing.

Mary's eyes widened upon realising that John's gaze was settling somewhere behind her back. She turned-

And nearly stumbled backwards into John's chest.

He caught her by the arms, steadying her. "Sherlock," he said, "this is Mary Morstan. Best nurse in the Middle East and a very good friend."

"Oh, my... – Oh, God, John!" Mary stuttered. "Is this who I think it is?"

"If you're thinking along the lines of insufferable-posh-genius-detective, then yes, it is," he said, still grinning. Her eyes grew impossibly wider. "Mary, I'd like you to meet my partner, Sherlock Holmes."

To his surprise, Sherlock was actually offering her his hand in greeting, which she took after shaking herself out of her stunned wonderment.

"Thank you," Sherlock offered in his Honest Voice.

Mary was probably as much taken aback by this as John was. "For what?" she asked.

"For helping John while I was away. I can see from his reaction just now that you are important to him and were a reliable source for comfort."

Mary smiled in something like baffled understanding and shook Sherlock's hand. "You're welcome." Then she turned towards John. "Is he really, like... _real_?"

John smirked. "I checked quite, um... _thoroughly_, so yes. He's real."

Mary laughed and punched his chest playfully. "You bastard! Oh, you two have so much to explain. And don't you dare leave out all the interesting details."

The next second, John was manhandled into turning around and pulled into a bear hug, Murray gripping his back so tightly that John had to try to keep breathing through the smile on his lips. "It's great to have you back, mate," came Murray's loud voice next to his ear. "You missed me too, come on, confess!"

John laughed when he was released. "Through wind and rain I travelled," he quoted jokingly, "only for us to meet once more."

Murray slapped him on his right arm. "How's the shoulder doing then? Need some physio?" He offered.

John nodded, serious again. "If you can spare the time it might be good to set that rusty old thing straight before we're heading out in the morning." Of course John could go to physiotherapists in London, but most of the time he was able to deal with the occasional stiffness and quirks himself. Out here, though, he needed to be 100% in charge of his body. And having been working on him since the day he'd gotten shot, Murray simply knew the maltreated muscles of John's shoulder best.

"No problem. I would have loved to tag along, by the way. But someone needs to stay behind and stitch the remaining fuckers back together, after all," Murray joked.

Then he stepped over to Sherlock. "Never thought I'd actually say this, Holmes, but I'm glad you're back on board."

Sherlock nodded once, mask in place, revealing nothing.

And that was when his team finally spotted them, Russ ordering her men into a comfy jog from where they had been organising the weapons. Upon reaching their small gathering, they saluted John- but when he just kept standing at ease and smiled, there soon were comradely handshakes and gripping shoulders all over the place. His old team welcoming him back in their middle.

Hadan was last to join them and John was more than glad to recognise the glimmer in his Lieutenant's eyes that clearly said he was giving as much a shit as John about rank right now and they met in a bruising hug without further ado. "Rais," Hadan simply said into the collar of John's winter uniform, "knew you'd find him."

John squeezed the younger man's shoulder in answer and then stepped back, watching as Hadan took Sherlock's hand, not shaking it, just holding it in a firm grip. "Nabil," he said without offering anything more.

Sherlock looked stunned for a moment, but then his gaze cleared and John was astonished to see his partner smile one of his rare true smiles, looking almost... honoured. "I..." Sherlock cleared his throat. "Thank you."

Hadan nodded, satisfied. "Of course you're still a dick for leaving him in the first place," he said matter-of-factly.

"Of course," Sherlock answered, nonplussed. Making John wonder when the hell Sherlock had learned to understand Arabic.

He had barely completed the thought, though, when Sherlock's gaze snapped over to him and he rolled his eyes good heartedly. "Don't be absurd, John. I'm not fluent yet. I only had a look into the basics on our flight to Homs."

John shook his head in fond exasperation at this. "I bet you're already speaking a better Arabic than I do- and I spent six fucking months out here."

Sherlock shrugged as John addressed his team, "Listen, I'm sure you're all already aware of this, but just to get this done in the correct order: This is Sherlock Holmes. He'll be our package for the trip to Rabah and onwards as we travel further into the mountains to inspect the latest crime scene connected to dishonourably discharged Colonel Sebastian Moran. Holmes is the leading investigator sent by MI6 in Homs and is to be protected under any circumstances. His survival has highest priority." There were agreeing nods from everyone. John knew his team was already thinking through memorised tactical movements, some of them setting their jaws in anticipation of the upcoming challenge. "And on a more personal note," John added, feeling Sherlock's scrutinising eyes settle on him, "should we lose him somewhere between here and his flight back to London, Sergeant Russ will be in charge of the remaining team again."

.

That night, they were all sitting around yet another bonfire, freezing their arses off, as John was talking about the adventures of the world's only consulting detective- for the first time joined by the man himself, who answered the others' curious questions about his faked death and the crimes he'd solved while on the hunt. Seemingly rather bored at the beginning, Sherlock was soon immersing himself in his deductions and analysed evidence, enthusiastically showing off after far too long without public attention- and for once finding a willing audience in the soldiers who had just spent another Christmas far away from home themselves.

When John joked that he'd quite missed Sherlock's violin playing at 3 am in the morning, one of the local doctors who'd joined them sometime in the recent hour sprang up and vanished behind one of the nearest barracks, only to come back with an old fiddle which he offered to Sherlock with a challenging smirk.

Sherlock cast a glance over to John and then stood, sliding the bow experimentally across the strings. Soon he was completely focussed on tuning the poor thing and when he finally looked up again, John noticed Sherlock's (quickly concealed) surprise at the wooden guitar in John's lap which Hadan had sneaked out to them in the meantime.

John grinned and let his fingers sweep across the strings once, producing a soft sequence of notes. Sherlock raised his eyebrows provokingly, answering with the fiddle in kind. John laughed and picked another short melody on the strings, this time in separate notes. Sherlock copied the picking motion on the smaller instrument.

The mood around them was light and comfortable, so John took things up a notch and played another, slightly faster, more complex tune, waiting until Sherlock had completed his mimicry- which the genius did without missing a beat. Of course John was perfectly aware that he had started a losing battle against Sherlock's perfect pitch, but he shrugged to himself, simply enjoying these last relaxing hours with his friends before they would soon be swallowed up by gunpowder and blood once more.

For now, their playful music went back and forth between them for a few moments, picking up speed while they were challenging each other in their friendly banter. Sometimes John would pick the strings, then the next round he would sweep them, but Sherlock kept on plucking as if he'd forgotten all about the fiddle's bow.

A few minutes after they'd started, John then began playing higher notes and it took only a blink of an eye before Sherlock had adjusted the bow after all, sliding it across the strings in mimicking rapid movements.

John smirked and when it was his turn again, he started a fast melody and suddenly Sherlock was joining in without waiting for his pause. And John reacted swiftly, continuing to play this time, leading them into a rhythmic song that animated the other soldiers to clap their hands, cheering them on as they blustered into playing faster and faster notes in a spontaneous duet. More and more people gathered around their bonfire, roaring and laughing, forgetting the war surrounding them for a bit.

John caught Sherlock's eye and knew that he was going to pause in his play before they'd actually reached that certain point of the melody and John was instantly turning into another quick challenge which Sherlock then mimicked perfectly again, then waiting for John to set yet another task for his fiddle to accomplish and so he did, Sherlock taking over and reproducing the sounds.

Back and forth, quicker, faster, louder, the cheering and clapping around them speeding them on further until Sherlock picked up the tune John was just playing and propelled them into another round of shared melody with Sherlock alternating and improvising now and then, until John's fingers vibrated against the guitar's strings.

And finally, Sherlock let the song come to an end as all things tended to end out here- loud yet silent, too fast and not soon enough- with half-sad, half-joyous notes, mingling with the sparks of the fire's smoke and descending into the black night of the surrounding steppe.

.

A few hours later, John witnessed something he hadn't seen in a long while: Early morning light catching in the tousled hair of a still sleeping consulting detective.

Leaning over to press a quick kiss to his lover's forehead and cursing their fast approaching departure, John grabbed his toiletry kit and headed out into the crisp air towards the bathrooms.

"Hey, you're late!" Murray called as John entered the washing stalls. Murray was already naked as mother bore him, leaning over one of the sinks and scrubbing his short hair with some makeshift shampoo that was basically a chunk of hard soap soaked in rainwater.

John grinned. "Pipes clogged again?" He remembered their first winter out here vividly, the huge amount of rain had caused some rather nasty landslides nearby and the pipes leading fresh water towards the camp (meant to be temporary at best back when they'd been installed) had gotten swallowed up by mud on a regular basis.

Murray groaned. "You bet. And now the Government has enough to do with getting supplies to the refugee camps and they forgot the freakin' shower gel last time they sent a resupply flight out here."

"Hm," John made and held his own shower gel out to his mate, who took it with apparent relief and immediately began soaping his whole body before splashing the freezing water from the can over his arms and legs to get it all off again.

John quickly brushed his teeth and then undressed to follow Murray's example.

"So where's the prince, then?" Murray asked as he towelled himself dry.

John _could_ have tried to prevent the mad smile from spreading across his face. But, honestly, he didn't give a damn about how insanely happy he looked as pictures of last night came up before his mind's eye.

Sherlock throwing his head back, pressing his curls into the thin mattress of their cold makeshift bed on the tent's sandy floor as John went down on his lover, pressing his nose into Sherlock's groin and inhaling the musky scent of him deeply, revelling in the warm, soft slide of skin against skin. His cheek rubbing against Sherlock's hard shaft until John licked a broad, wet stripe up that hot cock, tasting his lover for the first time. Sherlock's unadulterated moan as John took him in his mouth, swallowing around the thick length of him, tasting salty pre-come on his tongue. Sherlock's big hands fisting into John's scalp, shoving him further down on his cock, almost chocking him but not quite, mumbling John's name over and over again in a helpless mantra, completely lost to arousal and John's tongue on his leaking shaft.

Only a few years ago, John would have laughed at the poor idiot who'd suggested that John Watson would give head one day- and that he would enjoy it this much.

"Hey, Earth to Watson!" Murray called, slapping his towel at John, effectively snapping him out of his daydream.

John shook himself. "Yeah, Mind Palace," he answered at last, feeding Murray's chosen metaphor. "Rearranging some furniture."

"God Almighty, wipe that stupid grin off your face. It's disgusting, that's what it is. You lovesick bastard," Murray complained, shaking his head in mock annoyance.

John chuckled as he hurried through his morning routine to preserve as much body heat as possible before he inevitably would have to go out again to help organising the convoy.

.

They left camp at 0900 hours and made good progress for the first kilometres until they came to the blockade Rutherford had mentioned. From then on they had to pick their route carefully, using dirt roads and bumpy pathways that were barely distinguishable from the untouched steppe left and right their vehicles. From time to time they had to stop, checking their position and calculating the safest ways through the numerous minefields spreading out like cancer across the once peaceful land.

What would have taken them 20 minutes only five years ago, was now turning into a three hour journey, but finally they reached the field hospital on the outskirts of Rabah.

John jumped out of the Husky as soon as they came to a halt, joining Fontaig and Brian at the end of the convoy where they were already unloading the equipment and rations for the tour into the mountains in a few days time.

The field hospital had, in fact, once been a proper surgery next to an elementary school, complete with doctor's offices, operating theatre and sick chambers. These days, classrooms and gym had been transformed into huge hospital rooms with up to 25 beds for the patients and the former offices now held the sleeping quarters for the staff. John threw their backpack into one of the deserted rooms (noting upon entering: a desk, a chair, a narrow wardrobe, a window, a door- probably leading to the bathroom, two simple beds, no attacker, no booby traps) and then turned on his heels to go and meet up with the senior consultant for a quick review. He would probably wash his arms and face again after having basically all but crawled through muddy steppe all morning, change into some decent hospital clothes, and then immediately get to see the first patients. They wouldn't have nearly enough time until the investigators from Homs would arrive in a few days and John needed to make the most out of it, helping here as much as he could.

And, by God, help was needed. Jesus, it had been some time since John had last seen this much sorrow and pain in one place. Children of all age were squatting in corners, trembling from fever and fear. Their parents either missing- lost to the tumult that buried the villages and towns beyond the hospital doors, or suffering from severe injuries. Or dead. Syrian families had three to four children on average. This war had already produced more orphans, child soldiers and small corpses than many of the fights John had previously been in combined.

Apart from the obvious healing bit of his job, John had the horrific task of cataloguing each patient, taking down notes about personal data (name, gender, age, nationality, height, weight, hometown), symptoms and treatment. The thought of treating these people as mere numbers on a map sheet was making him sick but on a logical scale he knew that it had to be done. Apart from the chaos inside the hospital (where missing a name could mean missing out on stopping the bleeding of a wound or curing a contagious disease) the local authorities and those organising the refugee camps needed as much information as they could get to bring as many families to safety as possible.

So John went through rows and rows of beds and chairs and tear streaked faces, writing down impromptu medical files, stitching up shrapnel wounds and cuts caused by debris of tumbled down buildings, handing out water bottles and energy bars, feeding infants, disinfecting instruments, comforting crying children, carrying dead bodies, treating extensive burns, and amputating two fingers and one foot.

It was a shit fucking hellhole in the middle of a wet winter in a once modern, technically and agriculturally advanced country, full of beautiful architectural heritage, the former Gate to Eden. Now flooded by hatred and politics and guns.

The Watson in him wanted to drown the pictures in his head in alcohol. The doctor in him knew that he really didn't want to go where this would lead and just felt the need to find a deserted toilet to throw up in peace instead. And the soldier in him had seen worse. So John did what he always did in this kind of horror and simply kept pushing through, experienced in dealing with the abyss of human nature, trained in blocking out what hurt too much.

He could really use having Sherlock at his side now, though.

It was hours later, when John finally ended his shift and stumbled into their shared bedroom.

Sherlock had apparently used his time alone to turn the small chamber into the recent version of his commanding base usually reserved for especially intriguing cases. The walls were plastered with timelines, photographs and transcripts- some of them John recognised from the files Irene had stolen for them and some he had never seen before, clearly picturing local areas going by the familiar landscapes. A huge map lay sprawled on top of the bedding. Sherlock was currently sitting at the desk, tearing his hair out over the reports and photos the rescue teams had brought back with them from the lab in Rabah's mountains.

John stepped up to him, pressing a soft kiss to that genius head of his, practically able to hear the shiny cogs turning. "Hey, don't overwork yourself, alright?" John said quietly, "You're going to figure it out once you see the actual crime scene. You always do."

"Hm," was the only reply Sherlock could bring up, sunken deep into his Mind Palace as he was.

John sighed, squeezing Sherlock's neck once. "I'm taking a shower. I'll be back in a few minutes and then you can talk me through what you have so far."

Sherlock didn't react as John closed the door softly behind him.

.

Shortly after, John was standing underneath the hot spray of the shower, enjoying the privilege of a private bathroom that came with their new temporary accommodation.

He was dead on his feet after having spent the last 12 hours non-stop caring for dozens of wounded, ill, or otherwise traumatised civilians. The warm water was massaging the cramping muscles in his shoulder and he leaned back against the tiled wall of the shower stall, closing his eyes and sighing in contentment.

Distantly, he heard the door to the tiny on-suit open. His brain was so tired and relaxed, though, that John's thoughts only caught up with his hearing when two strong hands with slender fingers slowly slid across his breast, moving upwards over his throat and then framing his face, pulling him forward into a wet, sensational kiss underneath the running water.

John hummed happily as Sherlock stepped completely into the shower, pressing their naked bodies together. Without consciously making the decision, John's hips instinctively began a circling motion, rubbing his wet groin against Sherlock's with soft, leisurely pressure. Sherlock was hard already, his long cock straining against his belly, its head dipping into John's navel with every other circling thrust. And John knew he wouldn't need long to follow suit in his lover's arousal, growing harder by the minute.

Sherlock moaned into John's mouth underneath the shower's downpour, rubbing his erection against John's eager cock, letting them slide against each other, their groins moving in sync in their intimate dance. Sherlock's hands wandered down to John's hips, holding him close while they moved, pressing John's hard-on into the firm skin of his belly. Their balls were sliding against each other, the thin, wet skin gliding easily, sending goose bumps down John's spine and making him dive for another deep, passionate kiss. He sucked Sherlock's tongue into his mouth, holding it between his lips and massaging it with the circling tip of his own tongue, making his lover moan with lust.

Sherlock leaned down, kissing and nibbling at John's Adam's apple, and John let his head fall back against the tiles, sighing in a calm sort of aroused bliss, letting Sherlock take over for a while. "Oh, God. Yes, Sherlock... Jesus, yeah... that's nice. Hmmm..." He pulled him back up, kissing him again, feeling Sherlock's contented hum vibrate against his lips.

"John..." Sherlock purred.

He moved down John's throat, further down still, licking and biting at the nipple he came across, and sinking lower and lower. Until he was on his knees and John felt him fuck his navel with his tongue and oh, God, now his gorgeous mouth was directly next to...

When John finally realised what Sherlock was about to do, it was almost too late to react at all and he barely managed a hoarse "No, you don't have to... you... oh,_ God_!" and then Sherlock's tongue was swiping up John's hard shaft and across his dripping glans and then the tip of his tongue was rubbing against the slit and then into it and John threw his head back and fisted his hands into Sherlock's curls, because, _Jesus fucking Christ_, this was insanely good.

Sherlock's tongue curled around the head of John's cock leisurely, once, twice. He looked up at John and his silver eyes screamed pure mischief while he started to slide down on him, slow, slower, taking him into his hot, wet mouth, deeper, deeper, _deeper_, until his lips were pressing against his balls and, _oh, God_. He was still observing John, looking up at him.

And then Sherlock swallowed around his cock inside his throat and, _fucking hell_, it took all of John's willpower and concentration to hold still, to not give into the urge to fuck that gorgeous mouth and incidentally hurt Sherlock in the process.

Sherlock let John's cock slide out of his mouth again, grinning wickedly and licking the gathered pre-come on the tip of his leaking cock. "Oh... God, Sherlock..." John moaned as he saw Sherlock gripping his own cock, slowly pumping his fist up and down his wet shaft while he focussed all his concentration on John's cock alone.

Sherlock leaned forward, licking John's balls, sucking them into his mouth, massaging them with his tongue until John feared his legs would give out under him. Oh, Jesus, this was good, so good, oh, God. John felt himself already nearing the edge and his brain was too far gone to form even one single coherent thought about what should, or would, or might happen next and then Sherlock's mouth was on him again, his lips sliding over the head of John's cock and down.

John pressed his eyes shut as Sherlock began to suck his cock in earnest now, grabbing John's hand, urging him to give in and fuck his mouth, and when John couldn't possibly hold himself back anymore and began to thrust his trembling hips forward, Sherlock moaned in such a deep guttural sound that it vibrated through John's groin, sending his nerves into overload and he knew he was about to come, he felt his balls drawing up tight, felt his knees buckle, and "Sherlock, Sher... oh, Christ, I'm going... Sherlock, I'll..." he tried to warn him, digging his fingers deeper into those wet curls in an attempt to pull him off. But Sherlock groaned and grabbed John's buttocks and pressed himself ever further down onto his cock and "_Oh_ ... Sherlock!" John was coming, shooting jet after jet after jet down Sherlock's long throat, feeling him swallow around him and coming even harder for that, his buttocks clenching and shivering, hips still thrusting forward in aftershocks as Sherlock sucked him dry.

And he felt more than heard Sherlock grunt loudly in answer, coming hard himself, coating John's feet in his clear fluid until it was washed away by the hot spray around them.

And before John was even able to think about what he was doing, he was slipping his spent cock out of Sherlock's mouth and sank to the floor in front of his beautiful madman and kissed him deeply and thoroughly, tasting himself on Sherlock's tongue.

And when Sherlock chuckled at John's somewhat cross-eyed exhaustion a few minutes later, and half-carried him to the narrow bed with John barely being conscious anymore, well, then John would certainly not complain about it the next morning.

XXX

**Author's note:** FYI, John and Sherlock both know each other's medical file by heart (due to Sherlock being, well, Sherlock and having a brother who's worrying about him. Constantly. And John IS Sherlock's doctor, after all.) Anyway, everything is alright in there and they're both aware of it. Just saying. In case you were wondering why John's not reciting this little fact when it's getting interesting. ;)

Playing it safe is important. Obvious.

**Also:** For those of you who're interested in the music in this chapter- it's inspired by David Garrett again. "Duelling Banjos". Try the album version instead of the live bits (both provided by that helpful internet thingy starting with 'U' and ending on 'Telly'), it's absolutely worth your time, I assure you!


	24. Chapter 24

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**Author's note: **Happy New Year, guys! And thanks again for all your kind comments. You're the best.

And, yes, we WILL finish this story in time!

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**Part 4 - Chapter 2**

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**Date: December 31****st****, 2013. 0815 hours.**

**Position: Rabah field hospital (34° 49′ 0″ N, 36° 23′ 0″ E),al-Qabu,** **Homs province, Syria. **

.

After three days of busy hospital life, the investigators from Homs arrived and John gave his team a short briefing on the upcoming task. They would have to travel by foot and wouldn't be able to camp properly on their way to have the element of surprise on their side when they reached the lab. Minimising the risks as best as they could. The men from MI6 were trained agents but unused to the rough terrain of Jebel el Ansariye, so they had to be careful in their approach, as the enemy was possibly still lurking around.

The evening before their departure, John was glad to finally have a rare private moment with Sherlock to talk about the most important bits that would await them. Pushing himself up on his elbows where he lay next to his partner in their impromptu double bed (aka their rearranged two narrow single beds), John felt Sherlock picking up on his serious mood easily, unusual as it was after their post orgasmic bliss.

"Sherlock, listen. I know this is going to sound obvious, banally so, but in a combat situation you can't rely on things you _technically_ know- you have to react in the split of a second and you have to react in a way that won't endanger you or the life of the people around you. That's why the army drills. But we don't have time for this now so you have to trust me in this."

John took a deep breath, organising his thoughts. They wouldn't have another opportunity to talk this through, so this had to be quick and thorough all the same. "When we're out there," he said, "I want you to always have your gun within easy reach, loaded and ready to go, alright? But don't use it unless you're absolutely sure that no one else is going to take the call and that no one else is in your line of fire. If we're entering a building then you keep to the back. Do not follow me unless I tell you to. Brian and Jordan are the flanks- they'll be your backing. When you lose sight of me while we're marching or if the situation requires us to part then make sure you'll have one or both of them right next to you, okay? They're a good team. They'll keep you up and moving, that's for sure, but they'll also see to your safety no matter what."

John was relieved to see that Sherlock listened to him intently, leaving his massive ego out of the equation for once. This couldn't be all that easy for him, following orders, following _John_, while working on one of his case. But he looked composed. Absorbing the facts. "Remmy is our radio operator," John continued. "He and/or his equipment will be your means to get the choppers from base camp out to us in an emergency. Russ is second in command. If I'm absent then she's leading the team. Listen to her and she'll get you out." Sherlock's expression darkened at this, but John needed to prepare him for any possible outcome. "Obviously, Hadan is your dragoman. If there's a critical encounter with the locals, mimic him. He knows these people best. And Jordan is the sniper. If he spots anything off he'll whistle once, short. Then stop whatever you're doing and duck for cover. He and I will check the situation and then I'll tell you when it's safe again. Don't move a muscle before that once you're behind cover, right? And for God's sake, always tell me what's the matter ASAP and straight forward when we're climbing that mountain. We won't have time for discussions or wild guesses. Just remember that I can't read your mind, okay?"

Sherlock nodded, processing the information with a serious expression on his face. "What about when we reach the lab?"

"Then we'll proceed as if entering any other building with possible enemy activity. And once we've made sure it's cleared and safe, then I'll call you and you can investigate away all you like. Letting your beautiful mind run free," John added, smiling.

"Well," Sherlock smirked, self-confident once more. "I can live with that."

"Good," John answered softly, "because that's both our lives at stake out there."

.

Their way took them along a narrow agricultural road for the first few kilometres, through abandoned farms and fallow fields.

As they moved on, the landscape became more and more rocky and steep. The mountain tops were already starting to loom above them and John ordered Jordan to keep an extra careful eye out for snipers, while Russ and Brian flanked their troop in search of mines. Sherlock's gaze was scanning for hidden signs of booby traps or any activity whatsoever relating to Moran or possibly even Magnussen. Although Sherlock had stated earlier that it was extremely unlikely for the latter to have come out here in person.

While they were marching, rain set in again and John was actually glad when they reached the first pine forest- the barren trees offering at least some shelter from the downpour even when they were inevitably slowing their group down further.

They had been marching for three hours straight by the time the slowly descending sun was lurking out between the rainclouds, trying to warm them up in their drenched winter uniforms.

When suddenly John's sweeping gaze caught a light reflection on top of a mountain face east of them.

Sherlock must have instantly recognised the hitch in John's step just before the whistle sounded- because he made it to the nearest rock, throwing himself to the ground hardly a blink before the first bullet hit the exact spot where he been standing only seconds before.

"Jesus, fucking Christ!" John exclaimed as the rest of them had found cover as well. "Couldn't they just taken the freakin' day off?"

He turned to Sherlock. "You alright?"

"I'm fine." But his voice sounded just that tiny bit shaken.

John nodded, reassured for the time being. He would panic about how close that call had been later. For now, they had to get out of here. "Jordan?"

Another shot grazed the top of their cover.

"Here, Sir!" came the swift reply to their right where the Lance Corporal was crouching behind a meagre bush growing between the stones. Well, shit. He couldn't stay there- if he was spotted, the soft branches would do little to impede the bullet.

"Let's get to that rock formation fifty metres at two o'clock and take them out from there. I'll give you cover!" John ordered.

"Yes, Sir!" Jordan knelt down, readying his rifle, waiting.

"Ready-" John adjusted his own sniper's vision, knowing that he'd hardly be able to hit the target from back here but that a well timed shot would give Jordan the chance to reach their vantage point safely.

If the attacker wasn't a professionally trained marksman, that is.

The trick John had in mind only worked with amateurs who still feared for their own life and hadn't learned to control their flight reflex.

Another quick adjustment to the rifle.

They all knew it was a risk but they only had this one chance. His preparations completed, John lined up-

"GO!" John shouted and shot, missed by 30cm, but Jordan sprinted...

– And made it with no immediate answering shot to disturb his run.

John grinned in relief and turned to Sherlock. "Not safe yet..." John readied his rifle for his own sprint to come. "But that's definitely not Moran. A trained elite sharp shooter like him would have shot anyway."

Sherlock looked confused. "You willingly risked the life of one of your men? Isn't that supposed to be Not Good?"

John shook his head but before he could answer Brian explained, "Captain Watson knew that we had an opening the moment that first bullet missed you, Holmes. No offense. But even as tuned as you are to the Captain's movements and reactions- an elite sniper wouldn't have let himself be spotted like that to begin with. Doing nothing afterwards would have been more dangerous than acting on the remaining risk."

Sherlock furrowed his brows. "In that case, isn't it counterproductive to question your leader's decisions, as you indicated by sharing your thought process just now?"

"Hell no, Holmes. We're all in it in the first place because we trust the Captain. Orders don't keep us out here; orders just keep our lazy arses moving so that we can back him up when he's busy bailing us out of trouble again." He winked.

John smiled at this, touched by their loyalty. "Well, good to know, Corporal. Let's get your 'lazy arses' into motion and take out that nuisance over there before Jordan falls asleep, shall we?"

"Yes, Sir!"

Sherlock frowned, though the corner of his lip was slightly quirking upwards all the same. "Is this the moment when I'd have to say 'Go get'em, tiger' when telling you to come back alive?"

John stopped in his motions and looked back at him, dumbfounded. "Did you just quote _Spiderman_ at me? Bloody hell."

"Quite."

"That wasn't really a good movie, by the way," Russ commented from where she was adjusting her helmet after having wiped the rainwater from her forehead and eyes.

"Definitely not worth my time," Sherlock agreed nonchalantly.

"So, why did you watch it, then?" John asked, busy with keeping an eye out through his rifle's vision.

"I'd promised you to stay away from my seven-percent-solution."

John turned at that. He didn't need a mirror to know that he was failing to hide the worry creeping up to his mind's surface once more.

But then Sherlock continued without hesitation. "Often enough, though, I had to lay low and wait for Moriarty's handlers to make their move and I needed something to numb my brain to a degree so it wouldn't tear itself to pieces." He shrugged. "I remembered our movie nights."

John smiled to himself, once more realising that Sherlock wanted this relationship to work out as much as John did. "So you resorted to pop culture consumption for safety measures?"

"Yes."

"That's..." John swallowed. "Thank you," he said, taken aback by the honest attempt to finally share a personal bit about their time apart- even as it was in the middle of a goddamn sniper attack. But then again- this was still _Sherlock_. Nothing would ever be _normal _with him.

And John wouldn't want it any other way.

Sherlock smirked. "My pleasure," he said, dropping his baritone to an almost purr, transporting a confusing mix of sarcasm and challenge that sent shivers straight to John's cock.

John forced his mind to stay on the task at hand, somehow managing to keep his focus. "Jordan, I'm coming down to you!" he called. "Let'em dance! In ten, nine-"

John kept counting down in Jordan's direction as he looked back at his madman. "Are you doing that on purpose?" he asked incredulous.

"Yes," Sherlock said. "Is it working?"

"- Three, two-" John didn't turn this time, completely concentrating on the route he was about to take in his sprint, keeping an additional eye on his surroundings. "Oh, most definitely," he grinned.

"- Now!" John shouted and then he was running, running, the rock formation coming closer, almost in his reach, almost, _almost_. He was keeping his rifle loaded and ready in front of him, heard Jordan shoot, felt the answering bullet hissing past him this time, but made the jump for cover anyway, ducking, turning, pressing his back against the rock in front of him-

And was safe.

He faced Jordan immediately, who was crouching next to him. "Okay, let's get this over with."

Jordan nodded. "Sir."

"Guide me through it," John ordered, getting into position. He had to be careful in his moves now- each centimetre could mean turning himself into an easy target, yet he needed to get a good angle in order to manage a clear shot.

Jordan observed the enemy sniper and the surrounding area through the range finder, calculating the wind speed while watching the falling rain. John adjusted his vision according to the data Jordan was giving him. _Okay, yes, there he is._ John lined up. Adjusted one last time. The enemy lined up as well.

John shot.

The enemy went down.

- Just when Jordan cursed beside him, suddenly pressing a bleeding arm close to his chest.

"Safe!" John called back to the rest of the team, immediately putting the safety back on his rifle, slinging it over his shoulder and to his back, grabbing for the medical kit instead.

"Fucking SHIT, I can't believe that bugger got me!" Jordan cursed, offering the wound to John for closer inspection.

Brian reached them just as John had cleaned the wound and shook his head in relief. They'd been damn lucky and the Lance Corporal had only got a scratch out of their uncomfortable encounter.

"Garrett, you okay there or would you like to lie down for a minute?" Brian teased good-naturedly as John was starting to stitch the graze wound up, already done with disinfecting it.

"Shut up, Rob. You just sat over there in the comfy background and stared at my beautiful behind." Jordan gritted his teeth at the sting. "Jeez, Doc. Careful, my important hand is attached to that, you know."

"God, can you guys stop thinking and, most importantly,_ talking_ about sex for one freaking moment?" Russ rolled her eyes at them. "Have some mercy for the civilised part of humanity!"

John chuckled, looking up-

And saw Sherlock's 'ready for deducing the shit out of the whole lot of you idiots'-face, already taking a deep breath- "Oh no you don't, Sherlock," John said quickly. "If you analyse my team and turn them into self defence babbling school kids now, I'm going to throw that mould culture in the left cupboard out when we get home, no kidding." Sherlock was clearly about to protest at that- "And yes, I know you think I won't do it because you used my favourite mug for it, you git. Just... keep it to yourself. For now at least, right?"

"Fine," Sherlock pouted. "But it would have been quite enlightening, I assure you."

.

The building in which the lab had been found in was hardly more than an old, abandoned observatory situated on the peak of a tree-covered hill in the middle of the mountains. There were no guards or hidden attackers to be seen in the immediate area when their troop reached the place. The door to the main entrance was swinging sadly on its hinges.

John could see Sherlock practically itching to move forward and finally have a look at the real thing after having studied photos and sketches for days on end.

But with darkness falling quickly, leaving their small troop in the utterly black night of Syria's mountains, there was nothing to do until morning. Building up a fire or using lights would run the risk of attracting enemies to their camp. Moving in darkness (even if they would have had the luxury of night sight devices- which they didn't, thank you very much) was far too dangerous in case they stirred up predators, came across landmines, or simply broke their ankles or legs in the rocky terrain.

So waiting it was.

John divided his team into four groups to stand guard while the others caught a few hours of sleep. Naturally, Sherlock claimed that he didn't need any sleep at all ("I slept yesterday, John. Do try to stay rational"), so he and John would be on the last sentry duty until sunrise, starting with Brian and Jordan in an hour, followed by Russ and Fontaig, who then would be relieved by Hadan and Remmy.

For now, Sherlock was quietly discussing range and advanced functions of the PRR with Remmy, visibly hating his inability to investigate the lab at exactly this very moment. John could only imagine how difficult it had to be for such a brilliant and demanding mind to have all the clues and evidence necessary for solving an important case stretched out right in front of him, only to be held back by a fact as mundane yet unchangeable as the Earth turning around the Sun.

As the night progressed and the first two guards were carefully picking their way through the nearby steppe to find a convenient vantage point, John scooted down on the cold ground, using the erratic boulder in his back as a makeshift pillow, and closed his eyes to grab some sleep. He sensed rather than heard Sherlock make his way over, sitting down next to him, staying vigilante over John's rest while he sorted through the data in his Mind Palace some more.

Hours passed by, John's light doze only interrupted now and then by the changing of the guard or the distant cry of an owl in the night.

When Hadan finally came over to them it was only a few hours until dawn. John stood up and stretched his cold muscles, trying to get his body back into working order, and then he and Sherlock started to walk the small pathway leading out of their temporary camp. Reaching the fork at which they needed to part in order to get to their respective vantage points, John suddenly felt Sherlock squeeze his hand. Just once, before releasing it again.

"I'll be back," John whispered.

"I'll be here," Sherlock replied.

Then they parted.

.

The only thing John would remember afterwards was a quiet hissing noise next to his ear, coming out of nowhere, and a sudden sting to his neck.

XXX


	25. Chapter 25

**Part 4 - Chapter 3**

**Date: Unknown.**

**Position: Unknown (?° ?** **′** ** ?** **″** **N, ?° ?** **′** ** ?** **″** **E** **)** **.**

When John came to, he instantly knew that something was dangerously off. Without opening his eyes he could only glean so much but there were some facts he was quite sure about: Sherlock wasn't with him, at least not close by. He was restrained by something metallic with his hands on his back and probably a rope around his ankles. He was lying on the floor- sandy or dusty, dry, hard and freaking cold. His back hurt like hell, his shoulder tense as a spring and burning up, but he had feeling in all his extremities and could formulate fairly clear thoughts, so it was possibly safe to assume he wasn't bleeding or otherwise critically injured. He was shivering, though. Most likely due to the cold. The air temperature wasn't exactly freezing but couldn't be much more than 10°C. There was no wind whatsoever so he had to be somewhere indoors. He could hear voices- male, muffled, outside. His throat felt dry and the side of his body he was lying on hurt significantly more than the rest; signs that he might have been here a while already, unconscious. John focussed on the room around him once more. Listening. Waiting. There didn't seem to be another pair of lungs doing their job in here except his own- he was alone.

He opened his eyes.

The first thing he saw was a raw, unplastered stone wall with a heavy, solid looking metal door in the grey-blue light of the late or early hours of the day. The concrete floor was indeed dusted with sand but otherwise completely bare. Grunting against the pain, John pushed himself into a sitting position, his shoulder and leg throbbing upon being eased off the constant pressure. His uniform was still mostly intact, but caked in dry mud as if he'd been dragged across some patch of wet soil. His feet were indeed bound, though sadly not by a rope. Instead, they had used cable tie.

Great.

That would be difficult and most likely painful to get off. His wrists were handcuffed. John winced. His shoulder would probably never forgive him when he wanted to get out of here. But he had to find Sherlock and make sure he was okay. He _had_ to be okay.

John turned and found the source of the weak light inside his prison: A small window positioned directly under the ceiling on the wall behind him. It was hardly more than a fanlight but he assumed that the door was bolted so the window was most likely his best chance of escape. He would have to fit through somehow, but first things first. He had to get rid of his restraints.

Obviously, he had been relieved of his weapons and the room was completely empty. He sighed. The nearest wall would have to do then. Jesus, that wasn't going to be funny.

Pushing himself backwards with his feet, he shifted until he could lean his back against the nearest wall. He was just about to take a deep steadying breath before his next move towards freedom-

When he heard footsteps outside the door, coming closer.

John waited, bracing himself for what was to come. Would he be beaten up and dragged in front of a camera? Tortured for information? Not his best memories, of course, but manageable to endure to a certain extent. Far worse was the third option- sack pulled over his head and then stood up against a wall for the young terrorist trainees to do their first execution. There was simply no time for escaping that. He would have to hope that they needed him alive for now.

There was the sound of a metallic sliding bolt pulled back and then the door was pushed open- _Perfect_, John thought sarcastically: No key, no use of trying to kick the door in, definitely no route of escape there-

And then a young woman entered.

John could barely suppress gaping at her- she was beautiful, she was young, long hair pulled back into a pony tail that reminded him a bit of Lara Croft. She was wearing the camouflage of the British Army. And John had seen her before on a couple of occasions back home.

She had been the second victim that had survived being kidnapped by Moran.

The victim who had refused to flee their prisoner. She was Millie LeBark's girlfriend, Liz Renoir.

Shit.

"Hello, John."

"Liz," he commented dryly. He didn't know where this was going yet, so he needed to keep his poker face for as long as possible. _Build up your walls. Don't give her access. Weather this out._ Well, at least she wouldn't be able to manhandle him out of the room on her own and there was no sack or cloth in sight. That was as good as it could get for now.

"So nice of you to finally wake up from your little nap. I don't have the whole week to wait for you to tell me what I need to know."

A week. Oh, shit. _Don't let it be a week that I've been gone. _She could be bluffing. She had to be. _Sherlock's alright, surely. He's alright._

"You should have just asked me last time I phoned," John stated, for now completely calm on the surface.

"Oh, well. You know how these things work, John. Sometimes you just have to have a proper chat in person."

'_Well, so nice to have had a proper chat.'_

"So? What is it, then, that you want me to tell you?"

"Ah, John. Come on. It's obvious, isn't it- I want Sherlock Holmes on a silver platter and I want you to tell me how."

"That's non-negotiable," John replied coldly, shaking his head slowly.

"See, I thought you might say that." She took a step closer, pulling a dagger free from her boot. John swallowed a moan at the thought of what was to come, letting his head drop to his chest for a second to mentally collect what he could gather of his stamina.

Liz leaned down, already cutting his trouser leg open in a long straight line. John forced himself to keep looking at her instead of following the knife's path. To his left, the sun was starting to rise, sending the first weak rays through the small window.

"What was it like for him to kill my father Sebastian, hm?"

Her _what_?

Blimey.

Mycroft's agents could have mentioned that. Might have been a nice bit of information to have before going on a hunt after the man in a foreign warzone.

"Oh, you didn't know that one, did you?" Liz cooed. "Reasonable, really," she said in mock understanding. "I don't bear Sebastian's last name- never have, actually. Mum raised me on her own, but dad came home to play now and then. Taught me a few of his _tricks_." The blade of the dagger drew upwards and sliced along the buttons of his uniform shirt, leaving it hanging loosely off his shoulders, revealing the thermo-vest underneath. "... Told me about his adventures. The men he hunted. The villages he wiped out." She fixated him with a cold stare. "Told me about this young soldier with perfect sight and aim. His trainee, the big hope for future wars." She shrugged. "I was a girl so I couldn't be his favourite, of course. He needed a proper man at his side, his _wingman_."

She lifted the dagger, angling the blade.

And then she sliced it in an awfully slow way down the side of his exposed leg, cutting a deep red line into his flesh. John gritted his teeth against the burning pain, making no sound but a short grunt in the back of his throat.

The cut filled with blood, spilling over and running down his shin.

"Tell me, John: What was he like, when you were marching through the desert, side by side? My father. Before you betrayed him?" The point of the knife was pressing into the open wound. Piercing deeper and deeper. Centimetre by centimetre.

John pressed his lips together, sucking in panting breaths through his nose, but managed to stay silent.

"And then you refused to _die_." Another centimetre of stainless steel was pressed into his muscles. "When he heard about it he was furious. ... Then Magnussen came by for a visit to our house. I never saw my mum again." Her voice took on a slightly manic touch as she pulled the blade out again.

Slowly. Agonisingly so.

"James found us, told us all about his plan, his _game_. He wanted Sherlock Holmes to go up in flames, Magnussen wanted his sick breeding program, and we wanted you to _suffer_. What a happy coincidence, _n'est-ce pas_?"

Another long line was cut into the side of his chest now, slicing through the fabric of the vest and the skin underneath, grazing his ribs. John pressed his eyes shut and couldn't quite suppress the moan that bubbled up in the back of his throat. _God, that hurt._

"Does he talk to you like this when you fuck him? I bet he does. Begging you _'prenez-moi... plus fort, Jean, plus fort'_!" She moaned in a vulgar fashion, slicing a new line into the skin next to the first one. John felt bile rise up his gullet. "Oh, look at me!" She exclaimed in a scandalised high pitched voice. "- Now I've made you sick. I always thought it quite low for an interviewer to drag bedroom stories in to an interrogation, by the way. But I just couldn't resist, now could I. Your man killed my dad, after all. That's a bit low as well, hm? Do you think you'll need your balls?" she asked all of a sudden. "Personally, I've never seen the appeal in those thingy you men insist on carrying around. I could help you to get rid of them."

Jesus Christ, she was mad. And John was in trouble; he doubted that he could hold his ground through being castrated while fully awake. He'd fall unconscious. If he fainted he probably wouldn't wake up anymore by this point- She would most likely cut his throat in despair before that. Shit fucking, fuck, fuck.

"It won't take much time, I promise. I learned a little trick from Irene. Nice and neat. There's no need to spill too much blood."

Jesus. He had had a feeling that The Woman hadn't been merely a victim in this. She didn't match the profile after all.

"James brought her along, actually," Liz answered to his unasked question. "Well, obvious. He wanted to play and playing was her job. She got us everything we needed about Holmes. Information. Material." The dagger's point stabbed into the open cut on his leg again. John gritted his teeth, swallowing down a scream. "And you."

He'd known that Irene had played him, them. Just not to which degree, apparently. God, he'd been so stupid. He never should have left her alone with Sherlock. Should have thrown her out the moment they'd come home to find that she'd been going through John's toiletries.

What else had she been rifling through?

"But then that bitch wanted out. Tried to trick Sebastian after James had died. Tried to get Holmes back onto the plan by involving _you_. She tried turning the tables and leaking information to our enemies."

The dagger dug in deeper, barely missing the artery. _Shhhhhh_... Fuck, fuck, _godfuckingdamnit_! Blinding pain made him lose his focus for a moment, but he forced himself to stay awake and alert.

"She had to go." Liz shrugged her shoulders as if she'd simply shaken off a nasty fly. "But she'd already managed to get some of our files and researched data. So we needed to improvise." She looked at John expectantly. "You didn't _really _think Millie met your team here, escaped Sebastian and then happened to cross your path just like that, do you? All coincidence?" She laughed madly at him.

'_There's no such thing as coincidence.' _

John winced.

_Memo to self: __**Stop**__ fighting your trust issues. _

"Tell me where Sherlock is." She let the dagger slice through the flesh on the inside of his thigh. John let out a long, agonised groan. The sweat gathering on his forehead was starting to run into his eyes.

He blinked but held her gaze. "No."

Another cut, closer to his balls. "Tell me his habits since he got back. His secrets. His way of thinking. How to get him now."

His heart was rampaging in his chest but for now his vision stayed relatively clear and his breathing was okay. The PTSD was growling in the back of his mind but at the moment he was still functioning. Good thing he wasn't tied to a chair, though. That might have gone terribly wrong. "No."

"Tell me and I'll leave your manhood alone and you can go and fuck someone else. Last offer."

John felt the dagger's point held to the soft skin of his right ball, not yet slicing it open, but far, far too close. John's breathing jumped and his chest started to cramp. _Damn it, Sherlock. You really need to get me out of here soon._

He lifted his gaze once more, staring right into her eyes. "Piss. Off."

"Gentleman!" she cried, throwing her arms into the air. "I think we'll start with slicing off a nipple first, yes? Leave the good stuff for the finale! Left? Right? Any preferences? No? Well, I choose, then. Here we go..."

John watched in horror as the knife was set to his right nipple, the point starting to slide into his skin, applying more and more pressure. He was panting now, pained noises bubbling up his throat. A scream caught behind his lips and he bit down on them hard enough to taste blood, as the skin on his naked chest broke and the knife started eating its way through the flesh.

- And then it paused.

John forced his senses back online and realised the dagger had stopped moving. There was a quiet ringing noise nearby that John couldn't quite identify at first and the next moment the knife was gone and Liz was stomping out of the room, swearing into the phone held to her ear.

"Damn it, you daft arses, why wasn't I told?! Where is he now? ... Did you see him- no, no, like actually _see_ him? ... Yes. ... Yes, you fool. Of course I'm coming, get my tranquiliser gun and meet me at the rear gate."

And finally the door to his prison slammed shut behind her and a muffled sing-song barely reached him as she retreated down the corridor, "Stay there, Johnny Boy! When I come back, your man can continue the slicing and dicing for me. I'm sure we'll have some fun before the end..."

John closed his eyes and released the breath he'd caged inside his lungs, slumping down the wall in relief.

_Jesus, Mary and Joseph, that was close._

He'd almost thought he wouldn't get a chance to actually try and escape, simply being too weak by the time she'd let him go for a break. They always took a time out in between torturing- well, almost always. The question usually was if one would still able to move when they did.

There was no time to spare now, as John already felt the adrenaline leaving his body through the numerous bleeding wounds all over his leg and torso and he needed enough of the hormone in his system to push through the next part.

John could only guess if the call just now had been about Sherlock being close by, probably even accompanied by the guys from 97 Delta infiltrating the back. It was a possibility. No more. He was still on his own for this. If anything, he had to help them by getting out of his prison on his own and ASAP- hopefully meeting them at the halfway mark.

He carefully stood and took a deep breath.

And then, with all the force he could muster, he threw himself against the solid wall, smashing his bad shoulder into it as hard as he could. He almost didn't manage to stifle the scream that followed as his shoulder jumped out of its socket.

He sat down and used the extra centimetres of his arm to pull them over his arse and bent legs to the front side of his body. Then he used the spilled sweat and blood to lubricate the skin on his wrists underneath the cuffs' steel and began pulling with his uninjured right hand. It was painfully slow and he could already feel the skin breaking under the strain but he did make progress and he had to get out of here, damn it. With one last tug, his wrist slipped free and he immediately got rid of his boots and repeated the last bit on his feet.

When he was finally free of his restraints, he wrapped his boots in the damaged uniform shirt (not without saving the photo first, mind) and pulled himself up to the sill of the small window, urging his body to bring up all the strength it had left to hold him there. He pressed the heavy bundle against the thin glass and pushed. The first attempt was a fail, but on the second one the glass cracked and only slightly chinked as the shards rained down to the ground outside.

After clearing the frame of all the sharp edges he let the bundle fall and somehow managed to pull himself up completely, risking a look out to the area on the other side of the wall. He was at the back of a wide complex of small buildings, it seemed. Directly opposite his window was the wall of some kind of stone shed, hardly two metres away. Perfect! This would make it less likely he'd be discovered and therefore hopefully gave him enough time to wriggle through the small opening unseen.

Pushing his arms through first, John pulled himself forward, exhaled and pressed onwards. With his bad shoulder he couldn't grab the sill outside and flip his body to land on his feet, so he had to slide down head first as far as possible and then let go.

He hit the ground with his right shoulder and rolled to lessen the impact. He got to his feet and pressed his back against the wall of the shed, carefully starting to creep forward.

At the opening of the next row of buildings stood the first guard, armed, but with his back towards the small alley in which John was currently kneeling in the shadows. His bare feet made no sound whatsoever as he sneaked closer, and closer, and closer—coming up behind the target in one second and pressing his hand over nose and mouth in the next and a sharp pull-

Job done, John dragged the body back into the shadows, stripping it of the handgun, knife, shoes and jacket- because, blimey, was it cold outside today, even though the sun was now shining from a clear sky, lighting up the last few metres between John and the front gate.

He kept moving forward, slowly, trying to take calm, regular breaths against the pain in his arm and leg. He couldn't handle a rifle with the state his shoulder was in right now, but he had his finger on the trigger of the handgun while he got closer to the exit of the complex. There was no one in sight when he approached the gate carefully, metre by metre-

"Stop right there, Johnny Boy! I have no idea how you did this but here it ends," came Liz' manic voice as she stepped around a corner, pointing a gun at his head. She stood between him and his escape. _Damnit._

There was no choice whatsoever, really. If he surrendered he would most likely be tortured to death. Wait too long, just standing where they were, then she might be fast enough to pull first and shoot him here and now. He was a good shot but his body wasn't at its best right now. And when it came down to it, shooting her and catching a bullet in the process was definitely preferable to-

"Vatican Cameos!"

His body reacted faster than his mind could and so he was crouching on the ground before his thoughts had caught up with Sherlock's voice and the next second Liz's forehead exploded.

John watched on as her lifeless body slumped to the ground.

And about ten metres behind her stood Sherlock- his uniform dusty and caked with mud, his wild curls sweaty as if he'd marched all night, following John's traces.

"John..." Sherlock was breathing heavily, but a relieved grin was now spreading across his face as he gently pulled John to his feet. And then they were in each other's arms and held on tight (and damn the extra pain this caused) because- _fucking hell_- that definitely had been close.

XXX


	26. Chapter 26

.

**Part 4 - Chapter 4**

.

**Date: Unknown. Early morning hours.**

**Position: Unknown (34° ?****′**** ?****″****N, 36° ?****′**** ?****″****E****)****, Somewhere near the mountain chain of ****Jebel el Ansariye, Syria****.**

.

Hadan had arrived only a few minutes later and between him and Sherlock they managed to help John over to the incoming convoy, half carrying him to the backseat of the nearest Panther. Well. With his injuries there was only so much he could do for the time being, so when Mycroft's men reached the base John was happy to let them crush this pocket on their own, ordering only Brian and Jordan to assist the MI6 on-site and send reports to Talil base camp.

John was surprised, though, to discover that his kidnappers hadn't taken him far away from their starting point by the hospital. And so their way back on the bumpy road through the steppe didn't take all that long- nevertheless, John couldn't resist closing his eyes for a short moment and leaning his head against Sherlock's shoulder where he sat next to him in the shaking vehicle. The adrenaline was long gone now and John felt the pain of his numerous wounds spreading in bright waves throughout his tired body. Sherlock's hand curled tentatively around John's bruised fingers, careful not to hurt his dislocated shoulder further but seemingly needing the reassurance their closeness could provide.

John sighed and allowed himself to relax for a while, knowing that Sherlock was alright and that his team were right next to him, doing what they could to ensure that he would be safe for now.

.

When John woke up next it was to a muffled groan he soon realised he himself had been the origin of- Blinding pain shot through his shoulder when Russ, Remmy and Fontaig heaved him onto a stretcher and hurried down the hallway towards the surgery. Sherlock was apparently deducing the shit out of them to make them move faster and Hadan laughed, trying to get Sherlock to ease off a bit and failing miserably. When John wanted to reassure his partner that everything did seem worse than it honestly was, he only came as far as opening his mouth before Sherlock snapped at him.

"Shut up, John. You're not going to diagnose yourself so spare your breath."

John only chuckled and then immediately did hold his breath because the stretch of skin across his ribs really freakin' hurt.

John was lucky that Dr. Jenyat was on a break right now and had a few minutes to spare before she needed to be out with her patients again. She x-rayed his shoulder and, upon discovering that nothing had been broken, reset it while John gritted his teeth. There were quite a few slashes that needed stitching; especially the two on his leg. And John allowed himself the guilty luxury of accepting the offered painkillers when Dr. Jenyat ordered him to grab a few hours of sleep.

.

Five hours later, John opened his eyes to a busy patients' ward with Sherlock dozing in an uncomfortable looking plastic chair next to his bed and Hadan leaning against the window sill, humming a soft tune of an ancient melody John thought he'd heard somewhere before. Hadan stopped when he realised that John had woken up.

John nodded towards Sherlock. "Did he get any proper sleep at all?" he whispered hoarsely.

Hadan silently shook his head, looking regretful. As if it had been his task to ensure as much.

John sighed but shrugged his good shoulder anyway. There was simply no cure for Sherlock's stubbornness and he'd long since learned to work around it in his quest to keep his partner's transport running despite of it.

Carefully, John tried to move his strained muscles on arms and legs, stretching the bandaged skin and taking stock of his condition. His wounds were stinging uncomfortably but had started to heal already; his shoulder was still sore and probably would be for quite a bit. At least until he could get a hot bath and a physio massage.

But all in all he had been able to get away lightly and with a few paracetamol he would be fine.

.

Two days later John and his team were working outside, organising the chaos that was the arrival of the first convoy which would bring some of the already healed patients to the nearest refugee camp on the Turkish borders. Five military jeeps for the civilians, two for rations, sanitary products and other supplies, and four Panthers as escort were currently blocking the hospital yard. Children were crying, doctors explaining last minute therapies, soldiers barking orders across the vehicles- In short, it was quite a handful to do. And on top of that John hadn't seen Sherlock since he'd disappeared between two groups of rescued women from Moriarty's lab, getting some information or other from locals and foreigners alike (because _of course_ did he complete his Arabic studies already- these days, Sherlock rarely took Hadan as a dragoman with him on his investigating tours anymore).

"What about these two, Rais?" Hadan was asking now, standing close to John and indicating two little boys- twins- who were clutching each other's hands.

John was in charge of sorting through the infants and children to make sure that only those who were completely healthy would leave the hospital for now. The travel to the next refugee camp would take a few days after all and those poor kids didn't have anyone left. They were completely alone, thrown into a war that wasn't theirs.

John gave each of the boys a small bottle of water and one of his boiled sweets from his secret stash, crouching down and checking their eyes and ears one last time. "You're fine," he said to them, smiling. To Hadan he called, "Take them on board, they're good to go. Make sure they got a grown up with them."

"Sir." Hadan nodded and led the kids forward.

"John!" Sherlock's voice called suddenly from somewhere behind him.

John half turned and felt his eyebrows rising in surprise when he saw that Sherlock was carefully holding a baby in his arms. In fact, the mark on her wristband quickly identified her as the nameless girl number 4, approximately two months old. "What is it?" John asked, turning properly towards him while Hadan passed by on his way to get the next few waiting kids.

But when John saw the expression on his partner's face, he felt his heart clench in sudden worry. "Jesus, Sherlock! What's up?"

Sherlock locked gazes with him, his eyes utterly determined underneath the apparent confusion. "This infant needs to stay with us," he said.

John furrowed his brow. "What?"

"We will keep her."

Wait. Did he mean this the mad way it sounded?

"You serious?" John asked perplexed. A distant corner of his mind noticed Russ and Mary stopping nearby, watching the confusing exchange.

"Yes," Sherlock stated.

Sherlock wanted to adopt a child, a _baby_? Why now? And would he really want to raise her or was she part of some kind of plan or scheme concerning Moran and Magnussen?

"Knowing you, I'm sure you have a good reason for this."

Sherlock nodded. "A very good reason, yes." And after a short moment he added, "The only reason, in fact."

John's eyebrows rose impossibly higher. "And what's that?"

But Sherlock just held his gaze, holding on to the little girl in his arms with utter surety. John sighed. Most likely a private reason, then. Either that or Sherlock had simply decided to keep his motives to himself.

Anyway, this was something (whatever it was) that John couldn't help with. "We can't, alright?" he answered with mixed feelings inside. John swallowed as he explained the obvious problem. "She's clean and she's healthy. She's Syrian, she'll be taken to the refugee camp as soon as the authorities have checked her in. I know it seems cruel to send her off on her own but-"

"She's not, though," Sherlock interrupted.

"What? No, I checked her- she's perfectly alright." Did he miss something there? He took care of nearly 40 patients every day, so maybe...

"She's not of Syrian descendants, John," Sherlock said. "If you had the time and less stress for being responsible for too many wounded children at once, you would have seen it."

Blimey.

She really wasn't, was she?

But what now, then? A lonely foreign baby found in a warzone was both too unlikely _and _politically charged to just correct the map sheet and move on with it. They couldn't exactly prove anything, could they? Not on such short notice, anyway. And even if she wasn't Syrian that would either mean she had been lost by her parents, staying for whatever reasons in a warzone with a newborn, or abducted somewhere abroad and brought here by the kidnappers. Or-

"She was rescued from Moriarty's lab. We'll take her with us." Sherlock's voice sounded completely under control, but John could hear the slight strain of anxiety in it.

So it really was about the case.

"How?" John asked the next obvious question at hand.

Sherlock smirked at that. "Oh, I'm sure the British Government will be quite eager to help out."

"Will you tell me what this is all about?"

Sherlock nodded. "Of course."

"Will I regret knowing?"

"No." The baby girl whined slightly at that but went quiet again once Sherlock held his forefinger in front of her nose, which she tried to hold onto immediately, cooing softly when she succeeded.

John couldn't help but smile at the sight. "... Okay," he conceded, "keep her close to you as long as this chaos is still rampaging all around."

Sherlock nodded seriously.

.

That evening, when the first convoy had finally left, John found Sherlock and 97 Delta sitting in the conference-slash-break room, a few Arabic beers in bottles and some hastily heated rations on the table. Sherlock was still holding onto the little girl, studying her face up close as if his fingers itched for a microscope and a glass slide.

When he looked up, John caught his gaze and held it, then looked towards the adjoining room. _'Come on, we need to talk.'_

Without waiting for a reaction John then took a beer and went into the small kitchen. It wasn't the best place for this and it certainly wasn't completely private, but he needed to know what was going on now as they were to decamp in only a few hours.

To his surprise, Sherlock stood and followed him.

Inside the kitchen, John turned and shook his head slightly. "Okay, tell me what has gotten into you?"

Sherlock lifted his gaze. "Did you have intercourse with a woman while I was away?" he deadpanned, apparently jumping straight in.

John coughed at the sip of beer he'd just taken. Through the missing door he could see Hadan grinning. Mary tsked.

"Jesus, Sherlock. Where did that come from?" John asked in shock.

But Sherlock just raised his eyebrows at him, waiting.

"No, you daft bugger. I didn't."

Sherlock cocked his head slightly. "Hm. Interesting."

John rolled his eyes. "What is?"

"Look at her, John. Really _look_," Sherlock urged, indicating the small baby in his arms.

John sighed but did as he was told, even though he had no idea what Sherlock was getting at.

Well, what exactly was there to say about a healthy baby? Yes, she was beautiful with her dark blue eyes, the small podgy nose and her tiny fingers currently curled around the sleeve's hem of Sherlock's uniform. A small pocket of star dust, as were all newborns, really. "What do you expect me to see?" John asked in a deliberately calm voice. He smiled down at the little one, carefully caressing her soft cheek with a single finger. She opened her small mouth and openly smiled back at him, reaching up clumsily, not quite in control of her arms' muscles yet.

Sherlock didn't lose a beat. "Same colour of irises, shape of eyes, nose, earlobes, bone structure. You know the genetic signs perfectly well."

He knew... he...

John stared in shock.

Oh. God. Jesus. _Christ_.

Okay. This was complete nonsense. Utter bullocks. Just not possible, thank you very much.

John waited a moment until he was sure his voice was steady. "Sherlock, I get what you're thinking but this is simply impossible, alright? This child is barely eight weeks old and I spent last spring here in Syria- and trust me when I say I was not in any kind of shape to date between getting shot at and stitching up comrades."

He left the 'and mourning you' unspoken but he knew that both of them heard it anyway.

Sherlock scoffed. "Genetics don't need _dates_, doctor."

John shook his head, trying to grasp the situation. "What are you saying?"

"This looks more and more like some sort of farewell gift from a certain criminal mastermind, wouldn't you agree?"

John mentally ordered himself to concentrate. "You think this is Moriarty?"

"Possible."

John stared at the little bundle in Sherlock's lap. "How? ... _Why_? She's an _infant_, for God's sake! What good would have that brought? Yes, he _was _completely mental, but this..."

"I... have some theories on that," Sherlock replied, somewhat hesitatingly.

"So?" John queried.

"Based upon the files we got through Irene concerning extensive information about you and the place the infant was found at, I believe it safe to assume that she's the result of Magnussen's and Moriarty's breeding program in which Moran acted as a hired mercenary," Sherlock started to explain. "As for Moriarty's motives: Either we were supposed to find her dying, unable to help, having to watch her suffer through her last moments and then later find out what we assume now. Or we were meant to find her in time, save her, take her with us and develop an emotional attachment before she'd be wrenched from us once more."

John couldn't help a worried glance towards the helpless baby- hardly two months old and possibly already misused for some sick scheme or another of those criminal bastards, dragged into something she had neither knowledge of nor agenda in at all. Having spent her young life in a clinical facility with no warmth or love.

Sherlock's mask was firmly in place when he continued to list his thoughts. "Both scenarios would undoubtedly turn you away from Baker Street eventually, making me a much easier target. It could be one last strike from the grave, as well as an old plan which had already been set into motion before his death and couldn't be stopped afterwards, evolving on its own from then on. We hardly have enough evidence as of now."

The team was completely silent in the other room as John tried to think past the shock and started to process what Sherlock was saying. Ignoring for now his easy assumption that John would leave him when facing a crisis. Now was not the time for a conversation like that. "... You sure he's dead?" he asked instead.

"Yes."

"What about Magnussen, then? He is the one pulling the strings behind all this shit, right? What is in it for him?"

Sherlock shrugged. "We already know that he most likely wants to create the perfect soldier or equally deadly assassin, agent, whatever. You provide suitable genetic material, John. But I'm sure he'll tell us his reasons in detail over long, now that we have found one of the few surviving results of his experiments."

John closed his eyes, collecting himself, opening them again. "Right. Good. ... So. What now?"

Sherlock smiled. "We solve the case of your daughter."

_Jesus Christ_ and didn't that sound ridiculously crazy.

"Okay. What if you're right- and that's still a big 'if'", he emphasised, "there's still the danger of her getting lost to the system if we give her into child's care until the paternity test results come in."

"Exactly. That's why we're not giving her away until we have solid proof."

John sighed in fond exasperation at the detective and his mad plan- if one could even call it as much. Basically, all they had decided for now was to break some more rules and possibly laws while trying to figure something out. "You okay with having an infant living in the flat?"

Sherlock's brows furrowed. "Why wouldn't I?"

"Caring for a child finds its benefits in purely sentimental reasons, Sherlock," John said carefully.

Sherlock just shrugged again. _'So what?'_

John shook his head. "She'll be loud when you're trying to think, she'll wake up and cry- sometimes for hours on end- if you're playing the violin or setting something on fire during her naptime."

There was a cough from the other room that could have been a mix between a suppressed laugh and someone getting smacked across the head. John ignored it. "She'll cost money and even more time and nerves. She won't be able to understand even the most basic instructions- there mustn't be any poisons in her reach, no running off after criminals when that would mean she'd be left alone in the flat, no shooting the walls anymore- and most importantly: She cannot, under any circumstances, be part of or take part in one of your experiments." John halted. Then he added, "And she might throw up on your suits."

Russ chuckled silently.

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "I know that, John. Don't be ridiculous. We're not talking about turning 221B into a care centre for random children, after all."

"Raising her as an only child would turn our lives upside down just as thoroughly, believe me." Not that he didn't want her.

God, far from it.

He'd always wanted to have children someday. But upon meeting Sherlock he'd basically traded one dream for another, really. And this turmoil that had been his life recently forced him to keep his enthusiasm at bay.

Sherlock looked him straight in the eye. "Most likely."

John stared at him. "Then why would you want to do this?" he asked incredulous.

"Because she's not 'random', John," Sherlock stated in his you're-an-idiot-voice. "Do keep up."

XXX


	27. Chapter 27

.

**Author's note:** Hi, guys! Hope you all lived through the fanfiction episode on screen.

So, in case you'd like a distraction: Here comes the last chapter of ATT!

(There WILL be an epilogue by today or tomorrow, though. Promised.)

.

**Part 4 – Chapter 5**

.

**Date: January 6****th****, 2014. 1335 hours.**

**Position: St Bartholomew's Hospital (51° 31′ 2.86″ N, 0° 6′ 0.46″ W** **)** **, West Smithfield, London, England.**

.

Molly was nearly toppling over when Sherlock and John rushed into her lab: Both still clad in their uniforms and heavy army boots, tired yet agitated after war and chaos, rescue and discovery, farewells and a shaky flight back- and carrying a baby. Sherlock did not even halt in greeting (never mind offering an explanation towards the deeply confused pathologist), but simply stormed over to the lab equipment and started rifling through the drawers and cupboards.

So John took it upon him to fill their friend in.

"Listen, we found her at the hospital in Syria where I was working and she needs to be tested," he said, indicating the bundle in his arms. "Diseases, infections, genetic abnormalities, CBC. And," he added, "paternity." He handed her a small evidence bag with some short hairs in it.

She took it with wide eyes, nodding wordlessly.

Sherlock came back over to them, handing John a clean syringe and antiseptic wipes. John laid the baby girl into Sherlock's arms, careful to position her small head safely against Sherlock's inner elbow. Then he grabbed some medical gloves before cleaning the baby's forehead.

"Molly, could you hold her head still, please?" John asked as he readied the needle.

"Sure," she replied instantly, stepping next to Sherlock and softly taking the small head into her hands.

The baby whined and started to kick in her attempt to free herself from the restrained position. Molly cooed at her and managed to keep her head from moving for a few precious moments at last. John hurried to get this over with quickly and inserted the needle to the fontanelle with care, inwardly wincing at the sight but knowing that such a small infant wouldn't have other sufficient veins accessible than this one.

John pulled as much blood as he could professionally give sanction to, noticing with relief that the Little One didn't seem to mind the needle in her head at all- definitely not as much as the hands holding her still, anyway.

When John was done, he took care of the small puncture wound and disposed of the gloves. Sherlock handed the baby back to him and took the syringe to fill the blood into sterile Vacutainers and one single drop onto a glass slide, immediately starting his usual routine of analysing one sample manually while the machines did their numerous jobs.

"Molly," Sherlock said, "I need an analysis of the chemical markers in this sample." He held out a small glass vial without looking up from the microscope.

"Ah ... sure!" she stuttered and moved into action.

John stood back, letting them do what they could best. Soon the small room was filled with the humming and buzzing of half a dozen computers and other machines.

John leaned his back against the wall behind him, holding the baby close and watched on as she slowly, softly fell asleep after all of the previous excitement. Her eyelids dropped further by the second, the small mouth forming a nearly perfect 'O' as she yawned in contentment, her tiny fingers unconsciously nuzzling at the fabric of her rompers.

John had been fascinated by this little human being from the moment he'd first touched her small hands.

He'd been lost when he'd held her in his arms for the first time.

Yet the rational part of his brain fought against the inevitable forming of this all-encompassing emotional bond he already felt lurking in the background.

The risk was too high- too many unanswered questions forming too many traps and catches on their way to clarity. Even with statistics claiming the first born to usually bear great resemblance to the biological father, visual comparison of genetics could only build up a _theory_. Hardly more than a guess. Chances in this particular case were in fact quite high that Sherlock was, for once, wrong.

Or that the Little One was critically ill; that those bastards had done more than breeding and raising her in a cold impersonal environment.

It was possibly the most dangerous thing John had ever done (apart from confessing his love to Sherlock Holmes) to bind himself to this tiny girl before the last result in a long row of tests could bring the all-clear-signal. And so he fought to gain the detachment Sherlock always had talked about, had valued so high in himself before he'd accepted John in.

And yet, looking down at the sleeping form in his arms, John could feel himself failing with utter surety.

.

They were just exiting the cab in front of 221B, Sherlock still arguing with Mycroft over the phone ("I don't care how difficult it was for you to get us all back to London. I didn't send you the vial so you would stick to the bureaucratic nonsense, Mycroft! I need you to take the _shortcut_. Get the best medical analysts you have hidden away somewhere in those catacombs of Parliament and let them be _thorough_. ... Yes, for heaven's sake! Just send the file to Baker Street and I'll solve your boring case. Just be quick about our results! ... Are you drunk or did you just forget to insert your usual dose of cake? You're awfully _slow_ today, brother. Oh, do check the CCTV of Bart's if you cannot work it out on your own") when John nearly ran into his madman as Sherlock suddenly stopped dead in his tracks.

The baby immediately started crying in surprise, but John was only half concentrating on calming her as he saw the muscles in Sherlock's shoulders tensing up. "What is it?" he asked, worried.

"John, bring the baby to Mrs Hudson," Sherlock replied, voice as strained as his back.

Jesus. He was here already?

This surely came earlier than even Sherlock had expected. _Shit._

"Only if you wait for me before you go upstairs," John countered.

Sherlock hesitated for a moment but then nodded in agreement.

.

The door of 221B stood slightly ajar when they walked up the 17 steps to their flat and John was glad for the Browning still tucked into the waistband of his uniform. Even if he hoped they wouldn't need it- it was certainly good to know that they _could_.

Upon reaching the landing, Sherlock stopped and slowly pushed the door further open, revealing an elderly gentleman to be sitting in Sherlock's armchair.

The intruder had short, neatly trimmed, grey hair and a long, thin nose graced by narrowly framed glasses. He had piercing, green eyes and thin lips. He wore an elegant three-piece suit, holding a cane with a golden handle. It wasn't difficult to recognise the wealthy man from the photographs who had been talking to Moran.

"Mr Magnussen, I presume," Sherlock said in his aloof manner.

In the last two and a half seconds Sherlock had completely changed his posture from the man John had fallen in love with to that posh boarding school intellectual who saw everything and stood above it all. A man John had never really met himself but had seen on numerous occasions throughout their early cases when interviewing witnesses or wringing information from the aristocratic part of society had been necessary. A role that wasn't so much an act as it had been engrained to Sherlock's mind since early childhood. Yet he was completely in charge of when and _if_ he let it surface.

"Mr Holmes the Younger. And Captain Watson," Magnussen replied, equally unimpressed. His voice had a slight North European accent to it. Even though it sounded quite pleasant from a neutral point of view, the way he spoke their names in that cold accentuated way made John's hackles rise. Instinctively, he stepped next to Sherlock, facing the enemy head-on.

"I believe you have something of mine that I would like to get back," Magnussen continued in his smooth, slow tone of voice.

"If you know that we have it then you should also be aware of the fact that you've come in vain," Sherlock answered coldly.

Magnussen gave a small smile as if he was looking at a child who tried to reach the height of their parent by jumping up. "Oh, Mr Holmes. I would love to grant your wish in this, but sadly I have to be adamant. I already have the other three. I would like to complete the set."

John would have loved to do something too, that was for sure. As for now, he would love to break Magnussen's nose and tell him that he had no jurisdiction for his demand whatsoever, but he doubted that this man was giving a fuck about the law. He probably had all the right means at his disposal to ensure that he would get his way no matter what.

"In that case I would recommend starting a new series," Sherlock smiled, vitriolic.

All of a sudden, Magnussen slammed his fist onto the armrest of his chair, baring his sharp teeth. "I worked on this project for _years_!" he shouted- but stopped as quickly when, in the blink of a second, he was staring at the barrel of a loaded L9A1, pointing directly at his forehead.

Magnussen took a deep breath, apparently deliberately calming himself down once more. When he spoke again, this time it sounded as if he was trying to reassure a caged lion. "This child is meant for higher. A glorious career. Military. Politics. Journalism. Science. The best education and training. Money. _Power_." He waved his manicured hand in a vague gesture. "These are no ordinary children. They were specially created to be sold into high profile jobs with access to crucial information all over the world. They are not capable of living in a peaceful, purposeless society that values emotions over the ability to take action. They are genetically formed, Mr Holmes, Captain Watson. The product of advanced technology." Magnussen smiled coldly, challenging. "Superior in intelligence and sharpness of mind, quicker reflexes, more accurate instincts, unscrupulous, extremely rational and emotionless, better stamina, nerves of steel, stronger, faster, healthier. I am sure you both see qualities of yourself in this, do you not? All I did is to _combine and polish _what nature should have evolved into ages ago. It is a piece of art, gentlemen."

John stared at the man, baffled. "So this- all of this- was just part of your scheme, your way to more information."

Magnussen shrugged. "More information equals more money equals more power."

"You were the _éminence grise_, the puppeteer pulling the strings," Sherlock murmured, deep in thought. "You created Moriarty, led him onto my path."

Wait. _What_?

"I had to test your resources, find out the exact degree of brilliance your brain could provide," Magnussen stated easily, perfectly calm again. "Once I had James Moriarty interested in you I could lie back and observe. I have to congratulate you on your Faked Death play, Mr Holmes. I was not in the country at the time so I have to confess that I relied on external information but it all seemed very promising indeed. You convinced me, my dear fellow." He seemed honestly pleased by this.

Sherlock scoffed. "Don't call me that."

"It shall not happen again," came the immediate, dry reply.

Sherlock raised his eyebrows, obviously filing away new bits of information. "So you simply set your lab dog on my trail."

"Yes." A slow nod. No hesitation or doubts were ever visible at Magnussen's face, it seemed.

"Got me into crime solving," Sherlock continued.

"You had a rather difficult adolescence," Magnussen agreed politely. "You were endangering the successful development of your potential. I needed you to move on to new horizons. But do not fret- I only created a convenient crime scene for you to stumble across on your way home from your dealer. Everything after that you did completely by yourself."

John cleared his throat, slowly losing his nerves at these creepy, polite attitudes. "What about Moran, then?" he asked.

"Oh, yes. A useful man," Magnussen said, smiling at John once more. "Quite resourceful as a mercenary, but sadly not the material I was looking for. You, on the other hand, Captain- You are an immaculate specimen. Lucky for me, I found you rather early on in this project. You had just joined the army and your superiors discovered your remarkable skills."

Well, John already knew from the photographs in the file that he'd been the subject to some sick scheme for quite some time by now- but that certainly didn't stop him from feeling a chill running down his spine at Magnussen's words.

"I only had to keep you moving through the warzones that conveniently nourished my other projects and, if I dare say so, my bank accounts," Magnussen continued. "Colonel Moran became a danger after Helmand. I do apologise for that and those... accidents... in Syria. I assure you, he and his offspring acted sorely on their own agenda in this."

"And Irene Adler?" John asked, remembering what Liz had said about her help in the whole affair.

"An interesting party." The aristocratic psychopath nodded. "I underestimated her talent of acting on her double standards." Then his green eyes focused intensely on the pair of them. "Just as I did not foresee you two meeting each other, gentlemen. You took me by surprise with your rather enigmatic collaboration. But it also gave me the opportunity to collect a few samples of your genetic material, Captain Watson."

"So you didn't get any from me," Sherlock stated.

"Oh, I did try. But Miss Adler failed at that, I'm afraid." He looked truly regretful at this. "And after the encounter in Karachi you disappeared from my radars."

"And how did you get mine?" John wanted to know.

"Oh, not everyone shares your high principles." He smiled pityingly. "It only took one more cancelled rendezvous and a lonely girlfriend, a small amount of promised financial benefits and a shared night between you and the young lady. If one has the necessary information then all the doors are open and just need to be stepped through."

Jesus. Who had it been, then? Acting behind his back like that. Taking money from a suspicious stranger. Lisa? ... Jeanette? God, they really must have hated him.

"This particular door wasn't open for you, though, was it?" Sherlock said now, sounding still calm and in charge of the situation. "You lost control because you didn't see my survival and John reviving my network. All the little things our acquaintances did were slowly undermining your scheme. And then you lost Moran. You study people but you don't understand their actions on the emotional scale, what they are capable of doing when they see their loved ones hurt." There was just that minimal twitch of his head towards John, hardly detectable for someone who didn't know what they were looking for. "You didn't know about Liz Renoir. You eliminated her mother to keep in charge of Moran but you missed out on the rage of the daughter. The lab was discovered and cleared out and before you had the chance to save all of your precious specimen, John and I had taken one of them back here."

"Where she will stay," John breathed dangerously, "unless you want me to shoot a neat little bullet through your brain just here and now."

Magnussen sighed. "I confess that we seem to have some kind of stalemate. But do you really believe that such a special gem can be raised like a normal, a _mediocre_ child? It is a time bomb. They do not have any rooting in this world, gentlemen. They were _made_. Made to rule, to destroy, to fight. You two are not capable of keeping this loaded weapon away from its own trigger. They are machines." He smiled eerily and held out his hand. "Give me the child."

John shook his head. "Nope."

Magnussen raised his brows quizzically. "What if she is not your daughter?"

"I don't care." She already had him, no matter what. Genetics wouldn't change what he was feeling.

Sherlock furrowed his forehead upon Magnussen's inquiry. "You don't know about the exact genetic combination?"

"No. I have a whole team of specialists who were responsible for collecting the required data and material and to put it to good use according to the calculated most promising outcome."

"Maybe we should find a mutual beneficial agreement, then," Sherlock said carefully, casting a short glance over to John and his weapon.

Magnussen looked mildly intrigued. "What do you suggest?"

Sherlock hesitated. But then he continued anyway. "If the child is not John's daughter then we'll give her into CPS."

_Christ. _

"You'll let her grow up in her new family when she eventually gets adopted," John added quickly.

"Then you can secretly interfere with her life as you're so happy to do and when she's grown up you can try to recruit her for whatever scheme you have in mind," Sherlock concluded.

"What if she does show comparable genetics to Captain Watson?" Magnussen asked.

John gritted his teeth, emphasising the gun he held. "Then you'll piss the fuck off and we'll keep her."

Magnussen looked at them for a few minutes, probably thinking this through. "Well," he then said, letting his hands fall to his thighs decisively. "Under the given circumstances this does seem to be an acceptable solution, I believe."

Sherlock smiled in faked hospitality. "Thank you for popping by."

Magnussen stood, equally smiling. "Oh, not at all. I thank you for having me. Good day, gentlemen." He put his hat back on and tipped at the brim.

Then he turned and walked down the stairs as if this had just been yet another friendly visit between neighbours.

John sighed and put the safety catch of the Browning back on, setting it down on the desk.

Magnussen had barely closed the door downstairs, though, when John found himself suddenly pressed with his back against the wall, a very aroused Sherlock devouring his neck.

John moaned and leaned his head back, offering more of his bare throat to Sherlock who lavished the presented skin with his teeth and tongue, urging John's legs apart to press his thigh to John's groin. Sherlock groaned at the contact and John knew Sherlock was able to feel him harden under his ministrations, his cock already straining against the confinement of his jeans.

"_Captain_..." Sherlock purred into his ear and John's cock twitched in anticipation.

Oh, God. It had been far too long since they had had time for this. With John recovering and the stress at the hospital they had been hardly able to grab a few hours of proper sleep each night- more than a moment or two of heated kissing and a bit of groping would have cost more energy than they had left after 12 or 14 hours of chaos. And then they'd found the baby and-

"Oh... Sherlock," John panted, "we should get the Little One up to the flat."

Sherlock bit John's earlobe, sending shivers down his whole body. "She's perfectly fine with Mrs Hudson for now."

John felt his hands moving on their own accord, gripping Sherlock's hips and pulling his groin forward and as their erections met through the layers of clothing Sherlock hummed and pulled John's chin down from where he'd thrown his head back, kissing him deeply and thoroughly, holding John's face in his hands as if he planned to never let him go again- not even to come up for breath. And right at this moment John thought that, yes, breathing was hugely overrated and would have been definitely more boring than getting French kissed by Sherlock Holmes and, by God, even without any experience in the field, _naturally_ Sherlock had to be perfect in this as well.

John could lose himself in that teasing slide of hot tongue against his gums, his teeth, his lips, being completely infolded by Sherlock's earthy scent, feeling his warm, sweet breath caressing his cheeks, the dampened skin on his neck, making goose bumps rise on John's arms.

"John..." Sherlock crowded him even further against the wall, his taller frame all but swallowing John up, Sherlock's forearms pressed into the wall left and right of John's head. "John, fuck me."

Oh. God.

"Come again?"

"I need you to _fuck_ me, John. In our bed. Take me. ... Please."

Oh God, oh God, oh God.

"You sure?" John asked between their hungry kisses, shocked as he might be- he wasn't able to stop kissing his madman.

"Yes," Sherlock purred, already starting to fumble with John's belt.

Oh God. "Alright," John said breathlessly as Sherlock succeeded in opening John's fly. John pulled Sherlock's face closer to his, sucking his tongue into his mouth, making him moan while he carefully led Sherlock backwards down the hallway and into their bedroom. Inside they made short work of their clothes, tumbling onto the bed naked, never losing contact.

"Oh... John, yes..." Sherlock hummed aroused as John slowly kissed and licked a hot path down his breast, biting and sucking on a nipple, massaging it with his tongue before moving further down. God, this body was fucking glorious. Pale and lean, strong muscles stretched around the slender frame, a leaking hard shaft smearing pre-come with every panted breath across the skin of the flat abdomen it was straining up against. John let his hands slide over Sherlock's torso, his hipbones, down his thighs, his thumbs framing his groin, almost touching but not quite, teasing, making Sherlock's cock twitch up eagerly.

And then John settled on his stomach between his lover's parted legs, leaning down and licking a broad stripe up Sherlock's long shaft, and Sherlock moaned above him, pressing his head back into the mattress. John moved upwards on Sherlock's cock, nipping with his teeth. When he reached the head he let his tongue circle it a few times, feeling Sherlock's hips straining upwards under his hands, desperate for more contact. John licked across the glans, inhaling Sherlock's musky scent down here, tasting salty lust on his tongue, feeling Sherlock's answering groan vibrate through his shaft beneath John's lips.

John gathered some extra spit in his mouth and coated the cock's head with it before sliding down, taking him in deep.

Sherlock bucked underneath him, panting, "John... John... John...!" His hands fisted into John's short hair as he was spreading his thighs further apart, practically begging for more.

John was just about to pause and ask for lube when Sherlock reached towards the drawer of the bedside table and the next moment a small tube was passed down to him. He grinned around the wet cock in his mouth and swiftly coated his middle finger with the soft, cool gel.

He let the cock pop out of his mouth and licked at the velvet skin of Sherlock's balls before sucking one in, keeping his neck relaxed to compensate on Sherlock's hips thrusting upwards in earnest now while he let the lubricated finger slide across Sherlock's tight hole, massaging it with light pressure.

"John...! Please..." Sherlock panted, his hips slowly moving up and down in an unconscious need for release.

Feeling the tight ring of muscles starting to relax, John let go of Sherlock's balls and moved up his shaft once more. And as he took his lover fully into his mouth again, John slid the first finger into his hole and Sherlock bucked up, nearly choking him but John had seen it coming and rode it out and then he began to apply soft pressure to the muscles inside Sherlock's entrance, massaging the spot directly above the hole with his thumb from the outside. Sherlock squirmed underneath him, writhing on the sheets, his toes curling, his knees automatically drawing up to allow John to go in deeper.

"More... John...!" Sherlock begged. And John pulled out to coat a second finger with a deliberate amount of lube and, kissing the inside of his lover's thigh, he then carefully pushed both fingers in. "Oh, yes, oh God, John... ahhh..."

"Oh, Jesus, Sherlock," John hummed. "God, you're beautiful." He pressed his fingers in further, curling the tips against the muscles of the soft walls inside, finding _that_ spot and rubbing against it, just once, carefully testing his lover's sensitivity there-

And Sherlock cried out in pleasure. "JOHN...!"

John grinned into the side of Sherlock's pelvis, burying his nose at the base of his cock.

"John, now. Please... please, damnit. I'm ready. Now, please!" Sherlock babbled, spreading his thighs ever wider.

Slowly, John pulled his fingers free, sitting up.

His own- until now shamelessly neglected- cock jumped at the contact as he coated it with lube. Looking up, he saw that Sherlock was observing his every movement, his eyes clouded with lust, his chest quickly rising and falling.

"I love you," John said.

Sherlock smiled. "And I love you."

John lifted Sherlock's left leg over his good shoulder, positioning himself at Sherlock's entrance. "Tell me if you want me to stop," he said and then he was slowly pressing in, the sensitive head of his cock breaching that first ring of muscles. "Push against me," John advised, whispering.

Sherlock pushed his hips slightly down and John met him with equally soft pressure and then he slipped in.

Oh, God. He was tight. Incredibly tight and hot and oh, _Jesus fucking Christ_, John had to force himself to hold still, to let Sherlock adjust to the foreign pressure inside.

Sherlock had his eyes closed, his fingers dug into the muscles of John's arms. His breath came in quick, short pants through his nose, his teeth were gritted against the first uncomfortable burn. John kissed the knee next to his head. "Shall we stop?" he asked softly.

"No," Sherlock grunted. Then he started to relax, his fingers easing their pressure. "No... it didn't hurt. Just... unexpected. Unknown. It's okay now."

John nodded and grabbed Sherock's still hard cock, starting a slow rhythm, making Sherlock hum in pleasure. Slowly, carefully, John started to move. Small pumping motions inside, moving just that slight bit deeper with every new push forward.

Soon, he was buried deep inside him, his balls softly rubbing against Sherlock's buttocks. John leaned down for a sweet kiss. "How does it feel?" he asked, the most delicious pressure around his hard shaft almost sending his nerves on overload.

"Hmmm... John," Sherlock murmured into his mouth. "Feels... new. Good. Hard... so good. ... Soft and wet and..." He threw his head back as John started to move inside him again. "Uh... come on, John!" he urged. "Fuck me ... take me, _please_!"

And, Jesus Christ, didn't that sound sweet. Tempting, so wonderfully _tempting_. And John gave in, thrusting forward, once, twice, three times, picking up speed as Sherlock groaned with lust.

John felt his balls hitting Sherlock's buttocks with every new push, the length of his cock rubbing along the wet insides of his lover's passage, felt its tip brush against the prostate again and Sherlock cried out in another forceful wave of arousal.

They quickly fell into an easy rhythm with Sherlock lifting his leg even higher, the back of his knee hooking over John's shoulder. "Oh, Jesus... Sherlock, yes!" John groaned feeling his cock slide in and out of Sherlock's body, pulsing with need and lust and love and pure deep-seated _want_.

They moved in perfect, wild unison like this, until John's bad shoulder was starting to protest at having to bear John's weight during their continued rocking motion. So he leaned forward, kissing Sherlock deeply, slowing their intimate dance down a bit until he stopped moving all together, holding their position for a moment or two, before slipping out.

Sherlock's protesting moan made John chuckle softly as he grabbed the detective's hand and pulled him into a sitting position. "Come here, love," John said. "I want to try something."

Visibly intrigued by this, Sherlock complied and let himself be turned around. John sat back on his heels and pulled Sherlock into a backwards straddle so that he would be sitting on John's lap, his legs bent, resting his shins left and right of John's thighs, his back pressed against John's chest. This way, John would be able to relieve his shoulder of the pressure and at the same time go in even deeper but with Sherlock having slightly more control about it as well. Not everyone liked this but it had always worked for John and hopefully it would for Sherlock too.

"Ooh..." Sherlock moaned as John slowly guided him back down on his straining cock standing up from his lap, eager to be buried back into that sweet heat of his lover's arse. And... oh, _Christ_. This was better than good... The different angle allowed them to be even closer, to feel every muscle, every twitch, every groan vibrate through their bodies in synch as they started to move again, Sherlock rising up and pushing himself back, gliding up and down on John's hard shaft, his muscles clenching around him with every new thrust.

Sherlock let his head fall back, finding John's earlobe and biting down, licking it, sucking it into his hot mouth, playing it with his tongue and almost robbing John of the ability to stop himself from crying out in ecstasy.

John felt himself getting close already and God, no, that was too early because he still needed more of _this_, more of Sherlock riding him. He tried to slow himself down, to concentrate fully on his lover instead. He reached around Sherlock, gripping his hard cock with one hand and massaging a nipple between his thumb and forefinger with the other and "Fuck, John, yes, _yes_, don't stop that, oh God!" Sherlock was dropping his head forward, exposing that beautiful long neck and John licked and kissed it, revelling in the feeling of Sherlock's hips now circling leisurely in John's lap.

Soon enough, though, John could feel both their balls drawing up, passion sparking uncontrollably between them and John gave in to the urge and thrust in earnest now. He grabbed Sherlock's hips tightly and helped with the lifting and then pulled him back down, hard, letting his own hips rise at the same time and so they collided with a force that sent sparks down his spine and made Sherlock reach back and hold onto John's arms, the muscles in his thighs contracting, moving powerfully underneath that pale skin.

John pushed his cock in deeper, harder, Sherlock moaning loudly towards the ceiling as John hit his prostate with every move now, making his lover tremble and shake within his arms, their skin covered in sweat. John slid his left hand up Sherlock's chest, softly curling it around his lover's exposed throat, pushing him even further back against John's torso, holding on tight. Sherlock dug his fingers deep into John's arms as John began pumping his neglected cock, effectively caging Sherlock between his unrelenting grip around his cock, his strong hand around his throat pressing him backwards, and John's hard shaft thrusting up and deep into him with every move, hitting his prostate and wringing cry after cry of pleasure from his wet, plump lips.

John was getting closer and closer now and he knew he would come in just a few moments and Sherlock was almost there too, trapped helplessly as he was on John's body and the next second Sherlock was coming, hard, shouting John's name, coating his own stomach and John's fist around him with jet after jet of clear come, clenching around John's cock up his arse with every new pulse.

And John was feeling himself tumbling over the edge as well- "Yes, John, come inside me... God, yes, come on, fill me up... John..."- and he took Sherlock's hips in a tight grip once more and fucked him hard, one thrust, two, three, and then he was coming, coming, biting down on Sherlock's shoulder, pumping his hot come into his lover, feeling him quiver around his hard length, and his cock was pulsing, _pulsing_, Oh, _God_. Fuck... fuck, yes... YES.

.

"Jesus, Sherlock," John groaned, still panting but slowly calming down after their orgasm, circling his arms around Sherlock's belly, just holding onto him, "that was..."

"Hmmm..." Sherlock hummed, "most definitely. You _are_ aware that you'll have to do this trick of yours repeatedly from now on, aren't you?"

"Insatiable git." John chuckled, softly kissing the bite mark on Sherlock's shoulder.

"I told you I have an addictive personality," he purred and turned his head to catch John's lips in a loving, deep kiss.

.

Later, after a nice, shared shower, John dressed in civilian clothes and phoned Sarah, asking her if she could accompany him to the next Mothercare shop for buying some basics for a two months old infant. Nobody in 221 was equipped to host a baby, so John needed to get a few things before the shops closed for the night. Sarah was reasonably shocked but agreed to meet him in half an hour on Oxford Street, nevertheless.

Sherlock, happy to wear his pyjamas and dressing gown instead of a uniform once more, promised to fetch the Little One from Mrs Hudson and so John stole a quick kiss from the genius and hurried out the door.

.

In the end, it took longer than John had anticipated, even though they had only bought supplies for feeding and hygiene for now. Depending on the test results, John would go and buy toys, more clothes and a cradle later- should he be the father. For the time being, the baby would have to sleep between Sherlock and him in their bed.

Sarah and he were just making their way up the stairs to 221B as John noticed the utter silence from inside the flat with worry. Quickly and as quietly as possible he hurried towards the landing, leaning the shopping bags against the outside wall, and then stepped into the room-

And nearly stumbled in surprise before he felt a huge grin spreading across his face.

Sherlock Holmes- the world's only consulting detective and former self-proclaimed sociopath- lay on the sofa on his back, fast asleep. His chest was softly rising and falling with his calm breathing.

And on said chest lay an equally asleep baby girl on her belly, her small hands curled up next to her tiny body, the little fingers twitching in her sleep...

They looked so... peaceful.

John's heart clenched as he thought about how much he really wanted this life, this family. It was certainly not the path he'd always pictured for himself in his youth or even only a few years ago. But seeing them sleeping there and knowing that it would only take one single phone call to let it all dissolve into thin air, was hurting him more than he would have feared.

Sarah stepped up behind him, holding her hands before her mouth upon seeing the haven of tranquillity in front of them. "Oh, John..." she whispered, "she's beautiful!"

"Yes," John replied quietly around the lump in his throat.

Carefully he made his way over to them and sat on the edge of the sofa, stroking a tousled curl from Sherlock's forehead. "Hey..." John murmured softly.

Sherlock blinked and opened his eyes. "Hey," he answered.

"Shall I take her now?" John asked, indicating the sleeping baby on his lover's chest.

Sherlock shook his head. "We're fine."

John smiled. "Did she have problems falling asleep?"

"Hm. She wouldn't stop crying until I held her to my chest. I must have fallen asleep along with her."

John nodded. Infants often calmed down when hearing a trusted person's heartbeat from up close, unconsciously remembering the safety inside their mother's womb.

Sherlock furrowed his brows, easily picking up on John's worry. "What is it?"

John shook himself, not wanting to dwell on this topic now. "Nothing. It's nothing, I'm fine."

"Yes," Sherlock scoffed, "Just as fine as you claim to be when you wake up screaming in the middle of the night yet again."

"Sherlock..."

"What is it? Tell me," he demanded.

John sighed. "It's just... you probably shouldn't get used to her."

Sherlock looked confused. "Why not?"

"Because she might have to leave, after all. ... Look, even if I am the biological father- chances are that the mother is still alive as well. She could even be one of the rescued women in Rabah. And should she ever claim the child as hers than the question about custody would likely turn into a court case."

Sherlock nodded slowly. "And you're not living in an exactly child friendly environment. I see." John saw the disappointed yet accepting look of seven year old Howl in his expression. The look he'd worn when talking about how it was just the natural way of evolution that the other kids would call him freak and beat him up for being different.

"No, Sherlock," John quickly said. "That's _not_ what I meant, right?" Sherlock frowned and John remembered his lover's utter surety about John leaving him eventually during that conversation in Syria. "All I'm saying is that the motherly right to take care of her child might outweigh that of the father, especially if the child in question is still an infant."

But Sherlock just rolled his eyes at him. "Come on, John. Just say it. Given the fact that you're living with the former fraud and nutter Sherlock Holmes, spending your time solving cases by running after criminals on a regular basis- not to mention my rather self-destructive personality with sociopathic tendencies- it would only be logical for you to move on at some point in the near future."

"No." John shook his head, determined. "No, Sherlock, just... no. Look at me," he ordered when he saw Sherlock averting his eyes in repression. "_**No**_," John emphasised as he had the detective's attention again. "Alright? I am right here where I belong. And I will never, not ever, leave you, you daft bugger. Not until you want me to, anyway."

Sherlock hesitated, seemingly searching John's face for clues. Apparently satisfied with what he found he smirked. "Never."

John nodded, a relieved smile forming on his lips. "Good thing we're finally on the same page there, then."

"You two are something else, you're aware of that, yes?" Sarah said from where she still stood by the door.

At that moment, Sherlock's phone chimed in his dressing gown pocket. He exchanged a short glance with John and then took the call.

.

One minute later they were searching for a fitting name for their daughter.

**XXX End of Part 4 XXX Epilogue to follow XXX**


	28. Epilogue

**Author's note:** Okay, yes, I confess. ^^; I did not manage to finish this story until before the start of series 3 after all. But at least it's finished now. :) As I'm uploading this epilogue on the day of the airing of the second episode I realise that you might have completely different things on your mind than ATT right now. But anyway: Please have fun with the following bit and thanks for reading, mates!

.

**Epilogue **

.

"_I will never be able to_

_Not_

_Love you."_

.

**Date: December 24****th****, 2016. 1210 hours.**

**Position: **_**Shad Sanderson**_** bank, Tower 42 (****51° 30′ 55″ N, 0° 5′ 2″ W****)****, 25 Old Broad Street, London, England.**

.

On Christmas Eve, Greg Lestrade was standing near the polished reception desk of one of the biggest banking institutions in England, craving for a cigarette and watching Sherlock Holmes closing their latest case.

Corruption, blackmail, and cutting lots of honest people out of their savings. Apparently, it had been the chairman and his lawyer who had founded a bogus company, sold stocks, then manipulated the shares and made one of their own bankers the scapegoat. Suddenly, Sebastian Wilkes had to explain where 20.000.000 pounds had vanished to because it turned out that every transaction and even the bank accounts in Zürich had been ordered and signed by him. Being in financial trouble himself as his father recently had lost their entire family fortune; he had motive, opportunity and the necessary knowledge to pull this off.

Sherlock and John had been working in the background of this case for four days, following every paper and digitalised trace. And finally they'd discovered the storage room in which all the files about the bogus company were neatly stored away- effectively clearing Wilkes' name.

Currently, Sherlock was sitting in one of the posh lounge chairs across from the poor bastard, discussing the final course of action before NSY would take over (who would hopefully get the paper work done until Christmas Day, thank you very much) and turn this into some ironclad court case. One didn't need to be a consulting genius detective to see that those two had some kind of history together and that they were about to tear each other's throats out- without actually moving so much as a damn muscle.

"Uncle Greg!" came a high pitched voice from near the huge glass doors that made up the entrance to the foyer.

Greg turned and saw his three year old goddaughter running towards him with a speed that would make any elementary kid two years her senior green with envy. Her longish, light brown, waved hair was flying back over her shoulders as she stormed towards him.

"Heeey..." Greg caught her swiftly and lifted her up, comfortably settling her against his hip. "And where are you up to, Little One?"

"Me and Daddy are going to visit Father," she whispered confidentially, dark blue eyes sparkling with equal measures of warmth and intelligence. "Daddy has to go to cure people. They called when we were playing Deductions. I answered the phone all by myself," she explained proudly.

Greg felt himself smiling at the small girl. "Wow, that's quite something!"

She beamed up at him.

"And are you going to spend Christmas at your grandma's place again this year? Do you think it might snow?" he asked, smirking when he saw her tiny features pull into a pout.

She crossed her arms and drew her small eyebrows together. "You shouldn't ask more than one question at once, Uncle Greg. Father says you'd solve more crimes if you'd organise your thoughts better," she chided with a serious expression.

Greg chuckled, just as John was approaching them from having paid the cabbie. "Young lady, what do we say about giving advice?" John asked upon reaching them.

The girl dropped her head guiltily. "It's important to be nice about it."

"And?" John had crossed his arms as well.

She sighed with an embarrassed little half-smile on her lips. "Only grown-ups lecture grown-ups."

John nodded. "Right you are." He cocked his head and smiled encouraging at her. "And didn't you forget something just now?"

"Oh!" she exclaimed and hit her own forehead with her palm, turning to face Greg once more. "Grandmummy and Uncle Mycroft are coming home to us this year! And it _will_ snow, Uncle Greg, because Mrs Hudson's big toe is ticklish all of a sudden and the air outside smells curious," she said, practically brimming with anticipation again.

"Well, and you're not nervous about Santa finding you tonight?" Greg asked.

"No, he's _Santa_!" A smaller- and definitely cuter- version of Sherlock's 'you're an idiot-look' made an appearance. "He finds every child aaaall over the world," she emphasised excitedly. "And Uncle Mycroft promised that he talked to him. So he'll know."

Right then John seemed to have noticed the tension brimming between Sherlock and their client where they were still sitting on the other side of the room. He grinned and locked gazes with his daughter. "Go fetch your father, love. Daddy has to leave for work in a few minutes."

Greg was barely able to put the lively kid down before she was hurrying over to Sherlock. Slowly, John and Greg were walking after the little tomboy.

"So how's it going, then?" Greg asked his mate, watching on as his godchild reached the debating men and abruptly stopped, putting on quite a show of approaching her father in a normal walking pace like a perfect lady.

"Great." John grinned, watching the scene as well. "It's pure chaos, but we love it. She's already starting to discover her acting skills. Newest hobby. She resembles Sherlock more and more each day."

"She's going to be a good mix of both of you, John. She's a happy child."

"Feels like it," John agreed, smiling softly. "We certainly hope so."

"Any news from Magnussen?"

"No. Both, Mycroft and the Network are keeping an eye out on him and his activities, of course. But so far he stayed silent," John replied with a serious look appearing on his face.

Greg nodded. "Well, that's good, then. Maybe he's going to stick to his promise to stay away from you guys."

John bared his teeth, reminding Greg of how dangerous the jumper clad man next to him could be when provoked. "Well, he'd regret not to. We definitely wouldn't let him pass out after just a few minutes."

Greg ordered himself to have not heard this.

By now, they were close enough to the lounge chairs to be able to listen to what was spoken over there. The Little One was standing near her father's chair, waiting impatiently to be noticed.

The next blink, Sherlock ignored what Wilkes was about to say and looked down to the little girl. "Hello there," he simply said, stretching his arm out and allowing the kid to climb onto his lab. She immediately snuggled close to his chest and Sherlock's arm was curving around her back to keep her from slipping off. She eyed Wilkes with suspicion from where she now sat safely in her father's arms.

Wilkes stared at the scene in front of him in shock and Greg couldn't help a gleeful smirk forming on his lips upon seeing this charmless character in his 2.000-pound suit so baffled.

"What is _that_?" Wilkes demanded to know with an air of someone who had just come across a cockroach in their bedroom.

Sherlock's features darkened for the blink of an eye. "This," he said, "is my daughter." Then his gaze turned into something mischievous as he addressed the Little One, "Say hi to Sebastian, love. You remember the two gentlemen who ruined Uncle Mycroft's birthday ball this summer?"

The girl nodded and sat up straight. "Hi, Mr Wilkes! Is your tummy feeling better?"

Sherlock grinned proudly as Wilkes was turning into something resembling the colour of a rotten apple- actually, his facial expression seemed as if he'd just bitten into one, too.

"Nicely played," Sherlock smiled at his daughter who now shrugged her tiny shoulders.

"Father, you know Daddy will be telling you off for being mean, don't you?" she asked. "And it's Christmas and I don't want Santa to throw your presents away," she pouted.

"'Daddy'?" Wilkes inquired.

"Hmm... it's important to put your insight to good use, though." Sherlock smiled, ignoring the other man completely.

"Being mean is no 'good use'," his daughter protested.

"I'm not being mean, I was... playing tricks."

"Like the Trickster God, Loki?"

"Like Loki, exactly."

She thought about this for a moment. "It's still mean," she finally decided.

Sherlock smiled. "Yes, very good. You're right and I apologise."

"What's going on here, Sherlock?" Wilkes asked, somewhere between panicky and unnerved by now.

"Oh, don't be daft, Seb. You're the convenient training object for my three year old," Sherlock deadpanned. "Obvious."

"_Whose_ child is this?" Wilkes seemed to be rather worked up over this news, Greg thought.

"Ours," John stated. "Hello, Wilkes." He used Wilkes' horrified silence to step next to the chair his family was currently sitting in. Greg witnessed him leaning down in perfect calm- ever the odd mix of badass fighter and healer- softly laying a hand on his daughter's head and giving Sherlock a quick kiss.

Wilkes stared in silence as Sherlock lifted his head to welcome the loving gesture.

"Clinic?" Sherlock asked in greeting.

John nodded. "Yeah, A&E is short on doctors. I'll try to make it home till dinner, promised."

"Shall I organise something?"

"No, there's no need. I bet Mrs H and Evangeline are going to have our kitchen turned into a battlefield already by the time you'll get back," John chuckled and Greg couldn't help but marvel at the utter difference between this John and the one he'd tried to invite down to the pub for another helpless attempt to lighten his mood a bit until Sherlock had finally stumbled into their landlady's kitchen. Back from the dead, indeed.

And when he now saw Sherlock answering in kind to the good doctor, it was rather obvious, really, what those two meant to each other.

"Oh, don't worry, dear! We have everything under control," Lady Holmes suddenly called from somewhere behind them.

His goddaughter immediately jumped down and dashed towards her. "Grandmummy!"

"Oh, my baby!" she cooed, taking the Little One into her arms, hugging her tightly. "Look at you, you've grown so much!"

The girl snickered happily. "Grandmummy, you say that every time you see me!"

"Naturally!" Lady Holmes replied. "Because it's the truth every time I see you."

John embraced his mother-in-law in a half-hug and gave a quick kiss to her cheek. "You really shouldn't have to do this, though. I'm sorry."

"Oh, nonsense, John. I enjoy cooking for a change. It's certainly diverting."

"Then why are you here?" Sherlock asked, slightly miffed, from where he still sat in his lounge chair while Greg shook hands with the lady.

"We needed a few more supplies which I offered to get- I'll be much quicker with the Royce. Mrs Hudson is holding the fort. You're invited too, of course, Inspector. The more the merrier, _n'est ce-pas_?"

Greg couldn't think of a reason why, exactly, but suddenly John tensed up and Sherlock wordlessly stood and stepped next to him. They hid it perfectly from their daughter but Greg could see John leaning slightly into Sherlock in some kind of unvoiced distress, searching for the comfort the detective gave without questioning.

Another layer of something buried deep in their partnership, Greg assumed with slight worry.

He quickly shook himself when he realised that he hadn't given any answer yet. "Um, thank you but-" he cast a small glance over to his friends. John smiled and nodded. "Well," Greg heard himself say, "actually, I'd like to join you. Thanks."

The baroness clapped her hands together happily.

Wilkes, who apparently had just noticed the ring around Sherlock's finger, was visibly swallowing down a lump in his throat before he remembered his manners and hurried to stand, offering his hand in greeting. "Lady Holmes."

"Mr Wilkes the Younger," she said, instantly back to business. "Please send my regards to your father, would you? I regret the unfortunate circumstances which led to our rather abrupt parting last time."

Greg would have wondered about the quick switch from the loving grandma to the cold patriarch. But then again- where else would Sherlock and Mycroft Holmes have gotten their manipulative talents from?

"Well," Greg said, "I should probably go, then, and get the office stuff done before dinner. I'll see you all in Baker Street."

"Take care, mate," John grinned.

Greg had almost reached the exit when he heard his godchild calling after him. Upon turning back around, he saw her standing in the middle of Sherlock and John, waving at him. Giddy with all the excitement and happy anticipation so ridiculously _normal_ for a child on Christmas. And yet she was anything but.

Nobody of them really was. But Greg couldn't help thinking that this was exactly how they should be. _Not_ normal. Just them. Just Sherlock Holmes and John Watson. And little Jannah Watson-Holmes.

A few years ago, when John had started to write all of this down in his private blog, he'd told Greg about their story.

_This_ story.

And about how Jannah had come to them.

Named as she was after the place where her fathers had first met- the garden in which their apple tree still stands to this day.

And after the patch of land where she'd been found- in a country once called The Gate to Eden.

.

**XXX The End XXX**

**.**

**Author's note:** So this is the end of A Telling Touch. It's been quite a long journey as I originally started this story as a 2012 Christmas present for the wonderful, unequalled, perfect JezebelGoldstone (if you haven't read her works yet, go do it NOW. They're gorgeous.) I enjoyed posting it here and thank you all for your kind and motivating comments, for favouriting and for following. Every single reaction to this story, in whatever form it came along, lit up my day and helped me through the writer's block I experienced a few weeks into publishing. You're seriously the best, mates!

As promised, Jez and I will go over ATT and take care of the grammar and spelling problems still lurking around somewhere in there. I don't know when exactly this project will be completely finished. But we will finish it. :)

I'll now sit through series 3 and get normal life going again and then see if there'll be enough inspiration and time for another story about our Baker Street boys. Or, if you like, a sequel to ATT.

But for now let me say: Take care, mates! It's been a pleasure! X

(Also: 'Jannah' - Arabic female name, meaning 'garden', 'paradise'.)

**XXX**


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